Galway Girl
by rahleeyah
Summary: As a young man, Harry Pearce was sent to Galway on a dangerous mission. Now, twenty years later, his past has come calling. Sent once more into the breach, Harry will have to face the dark deeds that haunt his past, and the one woman he thought he'd never see again. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I have used some dates and information from Harry's Diary but I have taken a bit of creative license in places, including Ruth's date of birth, and I hope you all will forgive those deviations. The title for this fic comes from the Steve Earle song of the same name; though I am aware that apparently Ed Sheeran has also released a song entitled** _ **Galway Girl**_ **this country girl's heart remains loyal to Steve.**

* * *

 _And I ask you, friend, what's a fella to do_

 _Cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue_

 _So I took her hand and I gave her a twirl_

 _And I lost my heart to a Galway girl_

 _-Galway Girl/Steve Earle_

* * *

 **14 July 2006**

Harry stared out across the Grid, watching his team hard at work, and thinking, not for the first time, how much things had changed across all the many years he'd been sitting behind this desk. From where he sat he had a clear view of Adam, who was in the midst of what appeared to be a rather earnest conversation with his young protégé, Jo Portman. Beyond him, Ros Myers was sitting still as a statue at her desk, her back ramrod straight, her icy animosity palpable, even at this distance. Ros viewed her transfer from Six to Five as nothing less than a personal affront, and she wasn't afraid to show it, constantly flouting her own skills and quietly suggesting that things were done differently on the other side of the river. Harry knew he needed to nip that in the bud; left unchecked her resentment would fester like an open wound, and he knew no good would come of it. Tom Quinn and his exploding conscience sprang to mind; as soon as an agent lost sight of their shared goals, as soon as they began to think about themselves rather than the unit, calamity was never far behind. He might not have trusted Ros Myers, but he needed her onside.

On the other side of the coin there was Zaf Younis, another transfer from Six who had taken to his new position like a duck to water, happily immersing himself in the work and quickly becoming a vital part of the team. As much as Harry might have disapproved of his glib turn of phrase (no other agent in Harry's memory had ever used the word cool quite so much), he certainly approved of the young man's enthusiasm, and even Harry had to admit that Zaf was only cheeky when it suited the moment. Like any good agent, he knew when to be serious, and when to laugh in the face of death.

Beyond the circle of desks that crowded the foreground there was Malcolm, working studiously away behind his bank of monitors in the tech suite. Sure, steady Malcolm, Harry's right hand, the one person he trusted and respected above all others. Harry and Malcolm had worked together for many years now, and they had passed many a night drinking fine scotch and telling sad stories of the death of kings. The kindly twinkle in Malcolm's eye had dimmed of late; he was missing Colin, Harry knew, missing his closest friend, his one kindred spirit on the Grid. For years now Harry had watched the pair of them conspiring together and wondered if there weren't perhaps something more than friendship there; save for one broken engagement twenty years gone Malcolm had never shown any particular interest in the opposite sex. Harry didn't mind, one way or another, and he certainly wasn't about to ask; if it weren't true, Harry thought that raising such suppositions would be crass in the extreme, and if it were, he felt it was not his place to intrude upon Malcolm's private grief. So he gave his friend the space he so clearly desired, and kept his own counsel.

There were others, of course, other field agents, a veritable army of analysts, all of them under Harry's protection, his responsibility, his own little fiefdom deep in the heart of Thames House. Harry ran a tight ship, he always had done, but of late he had watched Zaf teasing Jo, had seen Ros and Adam circling one another like two wary birds of prey, and he found himself recalling the way things used to be, long ago when he was young and convinced of his own invincibility, when the desk that now belonged to Adam had borne a photograph of Harry's two young children. They were young no more, Harry's children; Catherine was twenty-six and desperately trying to save the world, and Graham was twenty-three and desperately trying to kill himself with whatever narcotic he could get his hands on.

Yes, times had changed. Clive, Archie, Amanda, they were all dead and gone. Only Harry remained, though he was not unchanged. Jane had left him, not without cause, Graham refused to speak to him, and Catherine responded to his infrequent emails with all the petulant brevity of a girl nursing a broken heart. And all of it, all of his personal failings and professional losses and private grief had changed him, made him harder, made him suspicious, made him sad. There were days when he thought about retiring, leaving this world behind and settling down in a cottage somewhere by the sea, but those moments of weakness were infrequent. Left to his own devices, Harry knew he would go mad surrounded by such solitude and bucolic splendor. He had several good years left in him, and he was determined to continue the fight, to carry on; he had sacrificed too much to stop now, to walk away simply because he was sad and lonesome and tired of the lies. He served a purpose greater than himself.

So it was that Harry was in rather a pensive mood when the call came in from his counterpart with the Special Detective Unit of the Garda Síochána in Ireland. The man's name was John, and Harry rather liked him, though they had not had much occasion to work together in the past, and traditionally the sound of an Irish accent set Harry's teeth on edge.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" John asked politely. Harry fought the urge to sigh, choosing instead to lean back in his chair and loosen his tie somewhat. The end of the work day was fast approaching, and he had been rather looking forward to making an early escape, not that there was anything much waiting for him at home. Just an arthritic old dog and an empty house, same as always.

"Not at all. What can I do for you?"

"I've just had a call from a friend of mine in County Down. Mulvaney?"

"I've heard of him," Harry muttered darkly. He was not on particularly good terms with MI-5's local man in Northern Ireland; Mulvaney was pompous and brash and as he labored under the delusion that he was Harry's natural successor he never missed an opportunity to point out that Harry was rather getting on in years, and that perhaps it might be time for him to start thinking about retirement. Privately Harry thought there were easier, less antagonistic ways for the man to find himself a new post back home in London, but he had bigger problems at present than the comically inept machinations of his homesick compatriot.

"He's been chasing his tail for weeks trying to source a stream of money and illegal firearms on his patch. He's convinced they're coming in on my end."

Harry was only mildly interested in Mulvaney's domestic woes, and he failed to see what any of this had to do with him; unluckily for him, John was a born storyteller, and he rather enjoyed leaving his audience – in this case a particularly cross Section Head – in suspense for as long as possible before making the big reveal.

"Mulvaney's people think the guns are coming ashore in Galway."

All of Harry's private musings of a quiet night in vanished the moment that word echoed through his handset. Galway. Galway was another world to him, a lifetime away, a memory of the smell of the sea, of a girl so lovely she put the stars themselves to shame. Harry hadn't thought about Galway - or the girl - in years, but in that moment, tired and trapped behind his desk, he found himself transported through time, back to the man he had been before, young and blinded by love, damning love.

"Galway," he repeated.

"Which of course makes this my problem, as far as Mulvaney's concerned."

 _And you're telling me this because?_ Harry wondered.

"There are some factions on my patch who are…sympathetic to the cause of their Northern brothers, and I've got eyes on most of those groups. The only problem is, I've not had so much as a whiff about the guns. Which makes me think whoever is behind this is someone I haven't tapped yet."

"John-"

"There's a woman," John cut him off, warming to his subject now. "She's…uniquely placed to deliver information to us, but she's skittish. She can smell a lie a mile away, and she doesn't trust anyone. Apparently she was involved in some cock up of a Five operation a hundred years ago – her codename was _Lolita_."

It seemed to Harry that the entire world stuttered to a halt just then; he clutched his desk, a drowning man clinging to a life raft. _Ruth_ , he thought. The codename hadn't been his idea; Jane had told him once how Nabokov himself had been appalled by those who interpreted his novel as a story about love, rather than one of damning obsession. Some of the local washouts who had worked with Harry on the op to capture Patrick Magee thought they were being clever in their choice of name for their young, bright-eyed informant, and the name stuck despite Harry's vehement objections.

She had been buried somewhere deep in the darkest corners of his heart for over twenty years now, that girl with diamonds in her eyes and demons in her heart. He had indulged himself a time or two in thoughts of returning to Galway, of waltzing into that little pub to find her behind the bar, of sweeping her off her feet. Always he had resisted; Ruth was a dream never realized, a tree pulled up by its roots before it ever flowered. He hoped that she had moved on, that she had found some way out of her little corner of Ireland, that she had seen the world and loved with her whole heart and been happier than he could ever make her, and it was that hope that kept him firmly rooted in England.

"I looked into it, Harry, and you were her handler," John said gently, as if Harry had forgotten. He never had; he remembered everything about her. "I managed to get word to her, and she said she would speak to you, and only you."

"This is insane," Harry said hoarsely.

"She's a fixture of the community," John dug in mercilessly. "That pub's been there since the dawn of time, and not a thing happens in the neighborhood she doesn't know about. Her husband – absolute waste of space that he was – was in deep with a bunch of would-be PIRA nutters, and those men still trust her. They still speak to her, and they still use the pub as a meeting place. We need her information, Harry, and you're the only one she'll speak to."

Words failed him, in that moment. A few feeble, half-formed protestations rose to mind, but they faded as quickly as they came. Things were quiet on the Grid, and it might be good to give Adam Carter an opportunity to assume more responsibility; though Harry fully intended to die at his desk he was not unaware of his own mortality, and it was Adam he wanted to replace him, not simpering, ingratiating Mulvaney. This would be an ideal moment to see how Adam handled the pressure of being boss spook. Yet still, Harry could not fight the rising tide of fear that threatened to drown him; things had not gone well for him, in Galway, and the thought of seeing Ruth again was as horrifying as it was intoxicating in its promise. Why was she insisting on speaking to him? Had she thought of him, as he had of her, with fondness, with regret? Did she want to curse him for what he'd done to her, taking her into his bed when she was hardly more than a girl and he was married to someone else?

"Your old legend's still intact. James Harrison, author and world traveller. We'd book you a room in the pub for a week or two. All you have to do is wander around, play the tourist, and find a way to speak to her in private. Once we have the intel, you'll be back on your way to London, no harm done."

There was something of the car salesman in John's voice, something wheedling and slightly desperate. Harry knew the man had to have been at his wit's end to make such a call in the first place. But how should he respond? Should he refuse, claim his team needed him, or should he give in to the churning in his gut, the clamoring in his soul?

What would it be like to see her again, years later, when he was finally unfettered? When he was older and sadder, fatter and balder? The years had not been kind to Harry, he knew; some days he hardly recognized himself. How much she have changed? She was barely twenty-one the last time he saw her, and she'd be in her early forties now. He couldn't imagine it somehow; in his mind she was perpetually young and lovely.

 _Christ, get ahold of yourself, man_ , he told himself sternly. _Forget the personal. Focus on the issue at hand._ He was fighting a losing battle, and he knew it.

"You'll make the travel arrangements?" he asked finally.

"I've already spoken to the DG. We can have you on a flight first thing in the morning."

 _I must be mad._

"Send me the details."

John thanked him profusely and rang off with promises to email him the information, and Harry sat for a moment in stunned silence, thinking of Ruth, of his own failings, of his own battered heart.

He reached for his phone.

"Adam," he barked. "I need a word."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: There will be flashbacks like this one scattered throughout the story.**

* * *

 **22 June 1985**

It was late, when Harry came stumbling home. His bones were weary, and the rucksack slung across his shoulders threatened to pull him under with every step he took. Clive had offered to have Archie fetch him from the airport and drive him home, but Harry wasn't quite ready to face his friend just yet, not when he fancied he could still smell that girl on his fingers, taste her on his lips, feel her in his soul. He couldn't bear the thought of enduring Archie's idle chatter; he needed quiet, needed time to think, to prepare himself for what lay ahead.

He'd spent the last six months roaming across Ireland, hot on the trail of Patrick Magee, the bastard responsible for bombing the Grand Brighton Hotel in October of 1984. The Prime Minister herself had rung Harry while he'd been on holiday in Venice with Jane and the children; Jane had rolled her eyes, and Mrs. Thatcher had demanded justice. Though Harry had all but begged Clive to allow him to remain on English soil, citing the fact that he had two young children at home and no connections to speak of in Ireland, the Prime Minister had requested him specifically, and his pleas fell on deaf ears. He supposed he ought to have been grateful that he had not been sent back to Northern Ireland to revisit the ghosts of his past, but Galway had presented problems of its own. For months he had toiled, dodging bullets and cultivating assets and falling quite madly in love with a local girl, and for what? He'd missed his anniversary and both his children's birthdays and for the second time in eight years he had broken his vows to Jane, yet he had nothing to show for it; Magee had been captured in Glasgow.

There was a light shining in the sitting room window when Harry finally arrived, and when he saw it he very nearly turned around on the spot. As he gazed up at his family's home, thinking about what he had to do next, a heavy weight had settled in his chest and he began to seriously consider going to stay in a hotel for the evening. He couldn't, and he knew it; Clive had already rung Jane, and told her to expect her husband home that evening. However much Harry dreaded seeing her again, he knew that putting it off would only make things worse. Jane hated his work, hated lying to their friends about what he did for a living, hated the long nights spent alone and worried about him, hated the way it made him suspicious and cross and difficult to live with. The work had changed him, and Harry knew this as well as did Jane.

 _Go on, man,_ he told himself. He readjusted the bag on his shoulder, pulled his house key from his pocket, and made his way inside.

With a bone-deep sigh Harry dropped his rucksack there in the foyer, stretching slightly, dawdling, delaying the inevitable. He knew what he would find, when he ventured into the sitting room; Jane, wrapped in her favorite blue dressing gown, curled in her favorite armchair, her feet tucked up underneath her and a cup of tea close at hand. The thought of her sitting up, waiting for him, watching through the windows and holding her breath each time a car drove past only magnified the grief, the guilt he felt for what he had done. How could he have betrayed her so, this woman who had followed him to Belfast, and then Paris, and then Cologne, and then back home to London, this woman who had borne his children, who raised them in his absence?

The answer was at once simple, and irritatingly complex. The time had changed them both; they were neither of them the same people they had been when they first met at Oxford. Harry had seen combat, had watched his comrades die, had lost his oldest friend to horror and calamity in Belfast, had made love to Juliet beneath the stars in Iran, both of them bloodied but mercifully, recklessly alive. And Jane, Jane had retreated inside of herself, too far away for him to reach, blissfully unaware of all that he had endured, the damage that he himself had wrought. Jane wanted a quiet life, and Harry's life was so loud that he found himself deafened to everything else save for his work, his duty. And so they grew apart, not that they had ever been particularly close; they had always been friends, but Harry kept his own counsel. He always had done.

And now, now he knew he needed to share the truth of his soul with her, needed her to know that though his heart would forever be bound to hers for the sake of their children, he could no longer continue to be her husband. He could not pretend that he was that man, any more, the man who had held her, comforted her, tried in his own heavy-handed way to love her. Harry felt himself to be a menace, felt too keenly the accusing stare of his daughter at the breakfast table, her eyes seeming to ask _who is this man, and who does he think he is, sitting at our table like he belongs here?_ His presence had become a burden on his wife and children, and he could not bear the thought of hurting them any longer.

"Harry? Is that you?" Jane called softly.

Harry squared his shoulders, and made his way into the sitting room to face her like a man.

"Hello, Jane," he murmured when he saw her. As he suspected, she was folded neatly into the armchair by the window, a book open on her lap. Jane was an English teacher and an avid reader; _she shares that in common with Ruth,_ he thought, though the moment her name came to mind he was gripped with a fear and a guilt so strong it brought the taste of bile to his mouth. How dare he even think her name, he wondered, when he was standing in his family's home, looking at his wife?

For one wild moment he considered taking the secret of what he'd done in Galway to his grave. After all, Jane had never learned the truth of his affair with Juliet; why should Ruth be any different? He could go to his wife, kiss her lips, pretend that he hadn't spent the night before (and many others besides) in the arms of another woman. _Another lie,_ he thought bitterly. _I am through with deceit, at least where Jane is concerned. She deserves better._

"Are you all right?" Jane asked him. She had a gentle voice, though it had been quite some time since Harry had last found himself on the receiving end of any tenderness from her. She always used to tease him, always had a clever quip ready for any situation, but of late what had been no more than playful banter had morphed into barbed insults and thinly veiled accusations. Jane was sensitive, but brittle, and she had begun to crack beneath the pressure of their life together. Though it was hard to imagine that now, when she was looking at him with concern in her soft brown eyes.

"I have to tell you something," Harry replied. As he watched Jane carefully closed her book, depositing it on the table by her side before crossing her arms over her chest. All traces of wifely affection had vanished from her; her face, usually so lovely and open, was hard and calculating as she watched him. _Perhaps I should wait,_ Harry thought as he returned her gaze. _I've been here less than a minute, perhaps we'd both be better off after a good night's sleep._

"All right, then," she prompted him.

 _Then again, perhaps I'd better just get it over with._

"I'm sorry, Jane," he said contritely. He _was_ sorry, sorry for what he'd done, not just with Ruth, but with Juliet as well, sorry for the pain his absence had caused her, sorry for not telling her the truth about his plans to join MI-5 before they were wed. He was sorry he had not saved Bill Crombie's life, and he was sorry that he had ever agreed to go to Ireland in the first place. He'd left his wife alone for six bloody months, in pursuit of a murderer he had not found. Yes, Harry was a sorry man.

"There was a girl, in Galway. A woman," he corrected himself quickly, though _girl_ was not far off the mark; Ruth had celebrated her twenty-first birthday only a few months before. Harry was thirty-one, and he'd spent the last six months chasing after a girl ten years his junior; no amount of verbal gymnastics could soften that blow. "Ruth," he added. _Now why did I have to say her name?_

Jane was just watching him in open-mouthed horror, and the silence between them grew stifling. Harry tugged at his shirt collar; he hadn't even bothered to button it properly when he dressed that morning, yet still he felt it was choking the life from him. There was no air in the room and his own words had left him dying, hanging on a gibbet of his own making.

"Ruth," Jane repeated faintly.

"It wasn't…" he lost his voice, cleared his throat, tried again. "I didn't intend-"

"You slept with her." Jane spat the words. Harry was floundering, but from across the room he could see the color rising in his wife's cheeks, and all he could think was _so this is how it feels, when a marriage ends._ "How old was she? This _girl_ you shagged? This _Ruth_?"

 _I never should have said her bloody name._ Just the sound of it brought her image to mind, the sight of her as she had been when Harry left her that morning, naked and glorious in her sadness. _Go back to your wife, Englishman,_ Ruth had told him in a gentle voice. _Forget you ever knew my name._ He couldn't, though; the touch of her hand was tattooed on his skin, and he knew he would never, ever be rid of her.

"That's not important, Jane," Harry answered her quietly. Already this conversation had gone completely off the rails; he had never intended to break it to her so bluntly, and there was so much more he wanted to say to her, not about Ruth – for he truly did not intend to tell Jane a damn thing about her, if he could help it – but about himself, about their marriage, about how he had realized that they simply weren't meant to carry on together. Jane slipped to her feet, pacing there by the window, her eyes flashing though she kept her voice low so as not to wake their sleeping children.

"It's important to me, Harry," she hissed. "How old was she?"

And Harry was so exhausted, so worn-out and convinced of his own damnation that his resolve wavered, and he answered. "Twenty-one."

" _Jesus,_ Harry!" she did not shout, but then, she did not need to. Her tone was scathing enough, no greater volume was necessary. "I've been alone in this house for half a year, trying to raise your bloody children, and you've been out shagging students!"

Ruth wasn't a student, actually; though she spoke four languages and possessed a blinding, razor-sharp intelligence the likes of which Harry could not recall having ever encountered before Ruth came from a poor family, and had no designs on attending university. Harry thought this was a shame, and told her so, but Ruth had simply shrugged, and gestured to the pub around them. _This is as far as I'm going, James. This is all of the world I'll ever see._ He'd nearly asked her to come back to London with him then, but he knew that even had he been in a position to make such an offer, Ruth would never accept. She was well aware that he was married; he might not have been able to tell her his real name, but he felt he owed her that much. Ruth had known a truth that Harry had not allowed himself to face until the bitter end; they were never meant to be together.

"How _could_ you, Harry?" Jane demanded.

There were so many different answers to that question that he hardly knew where to begin. When he'd first arrived in Galway, when he'd first met Ruth, it had been no difficult thing, keeping his distance from her. She was young and naïve and he was on a mission. But her beauty, her heart, the tragedy and the glory of her had left him spellbound and delirious in her wake. He was a long way from home, his wife did not love him, and this girl, young though she might have been, understood more about heartbreak and grief than Jane ever could. Ruth had understood _him_ , had understood his need to do his duty, had understood his pain and his doubts and the fickle longing of his heart.

"What did she do, Harry? What made her so special?" Jane was seething, and somehow Harry knew what her next question would be before she even asked it. "What, did she let you fuck her from behind?"

In all the years that they had been together, Jane had never once allowed Harry to enter her from behind. She said she didn't like it, that it made her feel cheap, that she couldn't come if she were lying on her stomach. She said she needed to see his eyes, needed to have that closeness with him. Though Harry truly didn't mind, Jane had become obsessed with the notion that somehow Harry felt their sex life was lacking because of it, and her insecurity about the whole ridiculous thing manifested itself in a multitude of unpleasant ways. And even though he knew all of this, Harry rather stupidly answered her question.

"She did, actually," he admitted, wishing he could somehow stop himself recalling the first time he'd made love to Ruth, the way he'd bent her over a table in her father's pub late one night after everyone else had gone home, the softness of her skin, the sound of her cries echoing in his ears. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to be doing at the time and it was only much later that night, as he struggled to fall asleep in the bed in his rented room, that Harry realized he had just shared something with this girl that he had never shared with his wife.

Jane let loose a sound that was very nearly a snarl and grabbed the closest object – a rather heavy book – and then hurled it at his head. " _Bastard,"_ she swore at him. Harry dodged the blow, but only just; the book clattered to the floor at his feet and he stared at it for a long moment, wondering how his life had spiraled so totally out of his control.

"Can I ask you a question, Jane?"

She glared at him, her eyes dark and hard and radiating anger as she continued to pace like a caged animal. "I don't think you're in a position to be asking anything of me just now," she snapped.

"Humor me," Harry muttered darkly.

She waved a hand at him dismissively, and so he took a deep breath.

"Do you love me, Jane? Truly?" Jane had assumed an outraged expression, her mouth open to fire back some retort, but Harry raised his hand, asking for silence. "You know who I am. You know what I've done. Do you truly love _me,_ not the soldier or the spy or the piss-poor father, but the man I am?"

Though Jane might not have thought about it before, Harry had devoted rather a lot of time to pondering that particular question. He knew he did not love her; they had become hardly more than roommates, sharing very little of their personal lives with one another, attending the same parties and discussing the children's schedules but never revealing their own needs, their own wants, the tangled desires of their hearts. And he rather thought that Jane must surely feel the same; he had not made her laugh for quite a long time now, and when he reached for her in the night she shrugged him off more often than not. He was someone to share a meal with, not a confidante, hardly a lover.

For a long moment, Jane was silent. He half-expected her to hurl another book at him, but as he watched her shoulders sagged. This was a moment he would remember for the rest of his life, the instant in which his marriage well and truly ended.

"It's late," Jane said, not answering the question. "Sleep on the sofa tonight, but I want you gone by morning. The children have got used to you not being here, and I don't want to confuse them."

Harry nodded, but he did not speak. There were no words to describe what he was feeling, the relief and the abysmal emptiness of this moment.

"I'll ring a solicitor, tomorrow, and we'll get the whole thing settled. I suppose you'll still want to see the children, at the weekends?"

Again he nodded. "I want to be a father to them, Jane." At this she laughed bitterly, but Harry soldiered on. "They deserve better from me."

"And I don't?" the harshness of her tone belied the pain she was feeling, and he wondered how it had ever come to this, how he had ever married a woman he did not love, how he could have mistaken companionship for passion, how he could have dragged two innocent children into this mire of unhappiness.

"You deserve more than I can give you," he told her honestly.

"At least you're right about that," she sighed. "Good night, Harry."

With those words she made her way out of the sitting room, and as she brushed past him the scent of her perfume on the air nearly stopped his heart in his chest. In a moment of weakness he reached for her, halting her progress with a gentle hand on her arm. "Jane," he murmured, thinking that perhaps they could go upstairs together, could bid their marriage farewell, could hold one another one last time, but before he could say anything else she shook him off.

"I don't want you to touch me _ever_ again," she told him coolly.

He released her, and watched his wife disappear up the stairs, his tattered heart shattering in her wake.


	3. Chapter 3

**15 July 2006**

The flight from Heathrow to Dublin was mercifully brief, and once Harry arrived he hired a car, and then spent roughly a quarter of an hour trying to make the SatNav work before giving up all hope and retrieving a paper map of Ireland from his luggage. That was the problem with Glaway; no local airport meant traversing the country, either from Dublin airport or from Shannon. Apparently John hadn't taken into account the fact that Harry would face a nearly three-hour trip from Dublin to Galway when he booked the tickets. Though a part of him bristled at the thought of having to navigate the Irish highway system on his own when he was hungry and already on edge from shoving his way through the airports, Harry was somewhat glad to have a chance to get his thoughts in order before seeing Ruth again. He did some of his best thinking while he was behind the wheel of a car.

And he had rather a lot to ponder, at present. As Harry drove along his thoughts travelled back to Ruth, and everything that had passed between them during the few months they had known one another. Over time his memories of her had faded like old photographs, the details dulled by a patina of age and regret that left them just out of focus. He could not recall the way she smelled or the sound of her laugh, but the touch of her hand, the darkness in her eyes was burned onto his memory, the sense of her, the feeling of her having never left him, even for a moment. There had been other women, over the years, a few he cared about and a few whose names he could not even recall, but there had been no one like Ruth. It was in his mind to worry that he had placed her on a pedestal, that in order to assuage his guilt over leaving his wife and his two young children he had convinced himself that she was more than she was, that what he felt for her was deeper than lust or convenience. How devastating would it be, he wondered, to waltz back into that pub and find, not the dreamlike faerie creature of his recollections, but just a woman after all, a sad, middle-aged woman who lacked the fire and the glory of his memories? That was perhaps his biggest fear, that he might discover that he had set his entire life ablaze for the sake of a woman who had been no more than a good shag.

Still, his heart whispered that this was not so. Though memory was a fickle thing there was a part of him that knew, with a certainty, that Ruth had been more than a willing body to hold in the dark of the night. She had been everything to him, once, a chance for something better, a kindred spirit, a hope that perhaps all was not lost. She had come to him, his saving grace, his avenging angel, at a time when he feared himself to be beyond redemption. She had spoken to him in a language all her own, assured him that though he had suffered so much, though the world around him was dark and foreboding, there was still goodness in it, and he himself was still on the side of the angels.

Would she still feel that way about him now? He had to wonder. The last time he'd seen Ruth she was barely twenty-one years old, lying naked amidst the crumpled sheets of the bed in his rented room above the pub her father owned. More than twenty years had passed since then, and Harry had no idea of what she might have endured in his absence. He knew the sort of horrors he had faced, the loss and the loneliness; had life treated her more kindly? Though he hoped it had, John had spoken of Ruth's husband in a derogatory and distinctly past-tense sort of phrase, and that hard truth niggled at the back of Harry's mind. Just how unhappy had their marriage been? Harry had dearly wished over the years that Ruth was happy, that she had left that pub far behind, that she had put that unparalleled intellect to work and loved every moment of her life. Now he knew that she had married an unpleasant man and remained firmly rooted in the soil of her home, and he could not help but fret, just a little. She deserved more than that, he thought, and the very idea of Ruth, that spritely creature she had been, free as a bird and twice as unpredictable, the idea of her having been fettered by something as common and tragic as an ill-fated marriage rankled. _She should have been free,_ he thought. _She should have been happy._

It did not bother Harry that he himself had not been particularly happy in the intervening years; he had chosen his path, and he had known from the outset that he was sacrificing his own wellbeing for a cause greater than himself. He had no such reassurances where Ruth was concerned. What could possibly have convinced _Ruth,_ that shy, rather unassuming girl, to marry a man who could be referred to as a "waste of space"? Was it that tale as old as time itself, he wondered; had Ruth found herself in a family way and done what any good Catholic girl would do, and married the father forthwith? _Christ_ he hoped not. The very idea was somehow crass, banal, even, and besides, the thought of returning to Galway only to find her chasing after a brood of children made him shudder in disgust. He had no illusions that they might pick up where they left off, but to see Ruth so mired in domesticity might well break his heart.

So Harry passed the time, on the long drive to Galway, thinking about Ruth, and family, and his own multitude of misdeeds.

As he neared the pub the landscape began to shift, stirring up a nostalgia deep in his heart. The city was much changed, but the streets for the most part remained the same, and there were still a few landmarks he recalled from the time he'd spent there. He followed the River Corrib, making his way towards Canal Road, smiling when he drove past the red-painted storefront of Ward's Corner Store, the sign out front proudly proclaiming _established 1931._ It was nice to know that in this world of swirling uncertainties, some things remained the same.

The pub was there, at the end of the road, nestled in amongst the fine looking old stone houses and the neatly parked cars. As Harry navigated his way up the drive he was assaulted by memories, by the way things used to be, and not for the first time he wondered at the wisdom of embarking on this trip down memory lane. No good ever came from chasing the past, he knew.

The pub was for the most part unchanged; it was a relatively small, two-story building, the first level given over to food and drink, the second reserved for rooms that could be rented at a fair price; at least, the price had been fair in 1985. He had no notion what his stay was costing John and the Special Detective Unit, but he found he didn't much care. The stone was a weather-beaten almost-white sort of color, and the metalwork sign out front proudly proclaimed _Shaw's Public House._

Now there was a man Harry hadn't thought about in years. _Shaw_ was Ruth's stepfather, David Shaw, though he had been married to her mother for so long that everyone save for Ruth herself simply referred to him as her father. Ruth always made the distinction, he recalled; she had loved her father dearly, though he died when she was quite small. Her mother had married Shaw and moved them into the small proprietor's house tucked away behind the main building, and for her part seemed content to pretend that they had always been there. Ruth had started working in the pub when she was a teenager, and apparently, she'd never left, despite the fact that Shaw had a son who could have just as easily carried on the family business in her stead.

In Harry's recollections David Shaw was a hard man; Harry and Ruth had been forced to tiptoe quite carefully around him, as Harry was certain that should the man ever learn what the pair of them got up to in the still of the night he'd soon find himself staring down the barrel of an ancient shotgun. Conservative, religious, and untrusting of strangers, Shaw had taken weeks to warm up to Harry, and even then he only barely tolerated the presence of James Harrison, renowned author and apparent _bon vivant._ Though Harry had made many contacts in the community during his stay, Shaw had never confided in him, and Harry's relationship with the man's step-daughter had made him hesitant to press him for information. There were other, less messy ways to go about his job, he thought at the time.

Shaw was dead and gone now, though, Harry had learned. Elizabeth, Ruth's mother, had followed not long after, though Harry had no idea what had become of Peter, Ruth's enigmatic stepbrother. He'd never met the lad, but given what he knew of David Shaw, he didn't exactly lament that fact.

What would it be like, he wondered, to stay once more beneath this roof and speak to Ruth whenever he pleased, without listening out for the heavy footfalls of her acerbic stepfather? Harry was too old to go sneaking about, slipping from room to room as if he'd found himself in some old French bedroom farce, and he was rather grateful that things would be different, this go round.

Once he'd parked the car he lingered for a moment, taking rather longer than necessary to retrieve his small bag from the boot of the car, staring up at the familiar façade of the pub and wondering about what he might find inside. Ruth had asked for him specifically, but he found he did not know what to make of her request. Was she simply asking to speak to someone she trusted, to see a friendly face, or did she wish to see _him_ specifically? And if she did long to see him, to hear his voice once more, _why?_ He could not fathom the answers to those questions, and that not knowing troubled him a great deal. There was no telling what waited for him inside that building, whether it would be sweet reminisces or brutal recrimination, but there was only one way to find out.

It was well past six on a Friday evening, and the pub was doing good trade as Harry made his way inside. There was a small foyer with a dilapidated old desk squeezed into a corner, standing a lonely guard before a row of old-timey looking keys. Ostensibly the desk was there to greet wayward travellers, but no one stood behind it on this night. Through the double doors in front of him the pub itself opened up, a vast space filled with tables and chairs, a bar running the length of the far wall. Harry slowly walked through those doors, feeling as if he were stepping back in time to a land that had remained frozen in a single moment while the world beyond spun madly on.

The low ceiling was decorated with unfinished beams, and though there were burnished light fixtures dangling at strategic intervals the room itself remained somewhat dim, giving the impression of being filled with smoke despite the fact that the air was clear and still. The tables and chairs were heavy, made from some sturdy, unidentifiable wood, the grain of the bar visible even from the doorway. On the shelves behind the bar a vast array of bottles and taps gleamed provocatively, urging Harry forward. A small band was plucking out a familiar tune in the far corner, the fiddle high and sharp and sweet as a kiss. The patrons, mostly men, laughed and sang and clapped one another on the back as round after round of drinks were doled out, bowls of stew and plates of roast steaming in front of them.

And there, behind the bar, was a vision in a blue dress, a will-o-the-wisp captured and poured into the body of the most beautiful woman Harry had ever seen.

She was everywhere at once, that dark-haired beauty; with one hand she was wiping at a spill on the bar-top while with the other she was pouring a beer, her full lips split wide and laughing at a familiar story while those stormy, ocean-blue eyes danced with life, with love, with merriment. Every movement of her hands was deft and sure and hauntingly familiar; she seemed almost to float from one end of the bar to the other, and in her wake every face that watched her held that glazed, dazed, overcome sort of expression that could best be described as _lovestruck._ Young and old they fell before her, pushing one another out of the way to clamor for her attention, her affection, asking for a whiskey, a beer, a plate of food, a moment of her time.

The years had changed her, he saw; though her waist was still trim, her shoulders still slim, her hips still tapered just enough to make him want to reach out and catch them in his hands, her face was lined, now, heavy grooves marking the valley between her high, sharp cheekbones and the cupid's bow of her mouth. As she laughed those dimples he loved so well were in full-force, and he was overcome with the desire to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and trace those depressions with his tongue as he had done when they were both of them young and foolish enough to think that love was a gift worth sharing.

He didn't, though; he lingered in the doorway, clutching his black bag, watching her at work and wondering, not for the first time, what the bloody hell he was doing here.

It didn't take long for her to notice him; her shining eyes fell on him after a moment, and she smiled at warmly in greeting.

"Can I help you, love?" she called to him. His heart fell, just a bit, at the sound of her voice; though it was welcoming and kind, there was nothing in her demeanor to indicate that she knew who he was. Not that he could blame her; he was heavier and broader than he had been as a young man, and his mop of curly blonde hair had thinned so considerably that he now kept it cropped quite short. Though time had blessed her with an air of wisdom, of a sweet sort of lament, the fragments of the girl she had been still lingering on her face, it had only cursed him, left him a hulking shadow where once he had been the golden boy, and he knew then he must appear to her to be no more than a stranger.

"I've booked a room," he answered, taking a tentative step towards her, but her next words stopped him short.

She gave him a little smile and then turned her head, calling out, "Maren, love? A hand? We've got a guest."

There was a little door behind her that Harry knew from past experience led to the kitchen, and he watched, all bemused, as a girl came bustling through it, wiping her hands on the white half-apron tied haphazardly around her waist. The girl looked to be in her early twenties, with long dark hair and shining blue eyes, and the sight of her stole the breath from his lungs; she was the picture of Ruth at that age. Surreal did not begin to describe it; his very soul cried out for her, and he was tempted to look over his shoulder, certain that if he did he would see a young, curly-haired man sitting at the bar and following this girl's progress with hungry eyes.

She offered him a pretty smile as she slipped out from behind the bar, making her way towards him. Harry remained rooted to the spot, caught somewhere between the glossy, black-and-white reel of his memories and the hard, Technicolor truth of the present.

"Who are you, then?" the girl called Maren asked him, a mischievous sort of light sparkling in her eyes. Behind the bar, Ruth was back at work, and did not have a glance to spare for him.

"James Harrison," Harry answered, hardly daring to take his eyes off Ruth as he spoke. She was too far away to hear his answer, though, engrossed as she was in the business of tending to her customers. He cursed his luck; he would have liked, very much, to have seen her face when he spoke his name aloud. No matter, he told himself; they would have their reunion soon enough.

"Ah, the writer!" Maren crowed delightedly, clapping her hands together as she set off for the little desk in the foyer. Harry followed along in her wake, bemused and troubled by his experiences so far. None of it had gone according to plan, though he supposed he should not be surprised, to find Ruth so lovely, so enchanting, so utterly unaware of his presence and the doom that followed in his wake. And really, what had he been expecting? It wasn't as if Ruth could – or would – throw herself into his arms and declare her undying love for him the moment she saw his face. Ruth was her own person, and who she had been and what she had made of herself had very little to do with him. No matter how he treasured the days they'd spent together, she was a creature of her own making, and she belonged to no one, least of all the man who had loved her and left her cold and alone on a June morning so many years ago.

"Mam told me about you," the girl continued in a confidential sort of voice.

 _Mam? Oh, Christ._

Of course Ruth was this girl's mother, he realized as he watched her; the similarities in their faces were too obvious to be denied, and it stood to reason that Maren would take Ruth's place working in the pub now that her mother owned it outright. It threw him, though, to know for a fact that she'd had children – or at least _a_ child – that she had lived this whole life he knew nothing about, and had done it all without him.

"Did she?" he asked, his throat too tight to allow more than those two words to pass his lips.

Maren nodded as she thumbed through the pages of a heavy, leather-bound tome laid out on the desk before her. "She remembered you coming through here, when she were a girl. Said you wrote a book about the city, and broke the heart of every girl in the county when you left." There was something rather playful, rather teasing about her, and that helped Harry in a way, for Ruth had possessed none of Maren's charisma at that age. Ruth had been hesitant and bashful, where this girl was brash and engaging. Though the time had apparently bolstered Ruth's confidence, he mused, stealing a glance at her over his shoulder as Maren carried on, heedless. The Ruth he saw now was utterly at ease here, and there was no sign of the girl she had been, that girl who had seemed to be perpetually poised to run.

He didn't fault her for telling Maren that she remembered him; likely one or two of the old-timers in the pub who had nothing better to do with their time than sit around talking about the old days would recall the writer who had come and pumped them all for information on the city of their birth. It was wiser to admit the truth up front than to risk calamity later. Harry had taught Ruth a thing or two about the business of spycraft while they had worked together on the Magee operation, and it appeared that she had taken those lessons to heart.

"Oh, I don't know about that," he said evasively, offering her what he hoped was a roguish smile. The girl wasn't looking at him, though; she was trailing her finger down the ledger. Strange, that, he thought; who kept paper records in this day and age? Still, there was something rather… _nice_ about it, something rarified about this whole place, as if it occupied its own temporal plane, untroubled and unfettered by the goings on beyond these walls.

"Here we are," she said at last, turning to retrieve a key from the peg behind her. "Room 214. Come on, then, I'll take you up."

Harry followed along behind her, traipsing through the little door that led upstairs, trying not to smile; 214 was the room he'd occupied upon his first visit, all those years before. Surely it was a good sign, he mused, that Ruth had given him that room, that she had chosen without words to say _I remember you, and I am glad of it._

At least, he hoped it was.


	4. Chapter 4

**6 January 1985**

The night was cold and damp, and Harry felt the time had come for him to seek his bed. For most of the afternoon he'd been holed up in a little warehouse just outside the city, speaking earnestly to a team of local agents, trying to impress on them the importance of treading lightly. The PM herself had tasked Harry with finding Patrick Magee; she'd been frustrated by the lack of results in the months since the hotel bombing, and she had once again trotted Harry out, her own tame spy dancing merrily on the end of his lead. As much as he loathed playing the part of the errand boy, Harry was forced to admit to himself that he felt a bizarre sort of pride, that the PM knew his name and trusted him with this, with finding the man who had very nearly succeeded in assassinating her in Brighton. The intel said Magee had come to Ireland, and there was reason to believe that he was, at this very moment, hiding out somewhere in Galway. Mrs. Thatcher had told Harry to find him, and he was determined to succeed.

Sooner rather than later, he hoped; telling Jane that he was going away, and that he couldn't say where or for how long, had incited a blazing row between them. It was the longest conversation they'd had with one another in months, though Jane had spent most of it shouting – screeching, really – and Harry had been given very little opportunity to defend himself. _What's the point of being married to you if you're never bloody here?_ Jane had demanded. It was just as well that she hadn't paused for his response; Harry had none to give her. What _was_ the point of being married, he asked himself, when he didn't trust his wife, and she harbored very little affection for him? What was the point of any it?

There was some reassurance to be found in marriage, to be sure. Harry could glance down at the ring he wore on his left hand – when he wasn't on operation – and be reminded that there was someone waiting for him, someone who cared for him. He could convince himself that he was not alone, and that the horrors he had endured had not utterly ostracized him from his fellow man. Those reassurances had been less effective of late; his dreams were haunted by the sight of Bill Crombie's ruined face, by the over-bright, nearly malicious glint of Juliet's grin, by the sound of Davie King's voice, cursing Harry for putting into motion the events that had killed his father. Harry's sins weighed heavy on his mind, and he could not recall the last time that he had found comfort within the shelter of his wife's arms. Even the sight of their children was not enough to banish the demons that haunted his steps; he looked at their little faces, and he could not help but wonder if they would be better off somewhere far, far away from him and the darkness he inhabited.

This operation was a chance to immerse himself in a legend, to put aside Harry Pearce and his pain and become someone else entirely, and much as Harry hated the thought of spending a prolonged period of time languishing in Ireland, he was very much looking forward to becoming James Harrison. The techies had outdone themselves this time, he thought as he shuffled through Harrison's paperwork in the carpark behind the pub where he would be staying. James Harrison, 32, unmarried, trust-fund-playboy turned aspiring author. He had been given an unlimited line of credit and a rusty, old-fashioned typewriter to lend credence to his story, and there was a small moleskin notebook tucked away in his bag that he fully intended to fill with notes on a novel that would never be written, a story about the heart of this city, this city he could not have cared less about. The writer angle was a good approach, he thought; men were more likely to talk, when they thought they might get something out of it, and what could be better than the promise of fame, of having their words immortalized in some glossy hard-backed tome? He would ask questions about history, about family names, about old grudges and betrayals, and through those tall tales he hoped to ferret out the identities of those men most likely to offer succor to a mad Northern bomber.

Having reviewed his documents for perhaps the tenth time that day, Harry finally dragged himself out from behind the wheel of his hired car, and shouldered his heavy rucksack. Though he understood the need for the typewriter he had not particularly enjoyed lugging the thing around for the last three days, and he was quite looking forward to putting it down.

Immediately inside the heavy oaken door there was a small foyer, and Harry stood there for a moment, stamping his feet to ward off the chill that seemed to have sunk into his very bones while he'd been loitering outside. Music and laughter and the smell of smoke and roast wafted enticingly through the double doors just opposite him, beckoning him into the pub proper, and he promised himself right then that as soon as he got settled in his room he would make his way right back down again, and have a whiskey or six at the bar. _Might as well get started tonight,_ he told himself, though he had no intention of speaking to anyone this evening. He intended to drink more than was wise, and he desperately hoped that he'd fall into his bed too insensible to dream. It would be worth the headache, come the morning, if he did not have to dream.

There was a small wooden desk tucked away in the corner of the foyer, and Harry turned in that direction as he got his bearings. Behind the desk there sat a girl, perched precariously on a rickety-looking stool, her nose buried in a book. She looked to be about twenty, her long, dark hair falling inelegantly over her face, shielding her features from view. There was nothing particularly memorable about her appearance; her clothes were rather plain, and she was chewing on one of her fingernails, utterly engrossed and paying no attention to the world beyond the pages of her book.

Harry crossed the room and stopped on the other side of the desk, but still the girl did not look up. Harry smiled; he couldn't help it. There was something charming about it, about her having become some immersed in the task at hand that she had missed the arrival of this stranger. He was on the verge of clearing his throat to announce his presence when she shifted slightly, and the title of the book in her hands caught Harry's eye.

 _Ulysses._

Now _that_ was interesting.

"National University?" he asked her, keeping his voice low so as not to startle her too badly.

He was mistaken; the moment he spoke the girl jumped, promptly dropping her book and knocking over the glass of tea by her elbow.

"Shit!" she swore, quickly gathering up her book and depositing it safely on her stool before sweeping off the white half-apron she wore and furiously scrubbing at the encroaching sea of tea, trying to stop it ruining the heavy ledger book spread out on the desktop before her.

"Sorry," Harry said, trying not to laugh. "I didn't mean to startle you."

She looked up at him sharply, and he caught his breath, quite suddenly mesmerized; this girl, this little wisp of a thing in a cotton dress, had the loveliest eyes he'd ever seen. In the dim light of the pub's foyer he could not discern whether they were blue or green or some color that had not yet been given a name, but there was a brilliance in them, a depth and a power that utterly captivated him. He was reminded sharply of a lighthouse he'd visited as a boy with his father; the building had been old, its foundation stones crumbling away into the sea, but he had been quite enraptured by the idea of that single beam of light, that soft, steady radiance warning weary travellers off the rocky shores, standing sentinel all alone through rain and gale and nights beyond counting.

"What did you say?" she asked him breathlessly. Her voice was warm and low, and the lilting Irish accent for once did not set his teeth on edge, when it dripped like honey from her full lips.

"Sorry?" he repeated, not intending it as a question though it came out that way. For a moment he'd quite forgotten what he was doing there.

"No, before that," she corrected him gently, her cheeks coloring slightly as she dropped her gaze to the sopping apron she was currently wringing between her hands.

"Oh. Er…I said _National University._ I was wondering if you were a student there. I thought you must be, since I've never met anyone who read _Ulysses_ voluntarily."

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth in a gesture that he found dangerously enchanting. _Steady on_ , he told himself firmly. _She's just a kid, and you've got a job to do._

"No, I'm not a student. I decided to read through all of Joyce's works. So far I've finished _Portrait_ and _Dubliners;_ I'm reading _Finnegans Wake_ next." There was a certain bashfulness about her, about the blush in her cheeks and the way she refused to look at him as she spoke, as if she were unused to people paying her attention.

"What the hell for?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

That got her attention; she stopped fiddling with her apron, and fixed him with a pointed stare. "Do I have to have a reason? Is it so unthinkable that I might enjoy it?"

"No," Harry answered slowly. Shy, but defensive then; Harry was already compiling all the little details of their interaction, painting a portrait of the girl's character in his mind. That was part of the business of spying, weighing up every person he met, assessing their potential usefulness, searching for weaknesses. "It's just…well…it's _Joyce_ , isn't it? All that stream of consciousness, hardly knowing what's real and what's imagined, and everything happens in Dublin. I had friends who studied literature at university –" _my wife, for one,_ he added in his mind – "and they all complained rather bitterly about it."

"He once said _if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal,"_ the girl told him, as if that explained everything. The longer he stood there, gaping at her, the more he found to like about her, about her slender shoulders, the curve of her hips, her high, sharp cheekbones. She really was lovely, he realized; though at first she had faded into the backdrop of the pub behind her, now that he was close to her, now that he had witnessed the spark of life that burned within her, she became something else, something altogether more beautiful, and altogether more dangerous for that beauty.

" _God is in the details,"_ Harry mused, the words leaping from his mouth unbidden. He _had_ studied philosophy, after all. As to whether he was commenting on Joyce or the details that composed the vision before him, well, he chose not to ponder that for too long.

"You're not a complete philistine, then," she said, smiling just a little. When Harry smiled back at her, she once more dropped her gaze, this time to the ledger book. Ostensibly she was searching for any signs of tea damage on the yellowed pages, but Harry rather got the sense that she found eye contact too confronting to maintain for any length of time.

"I'm a writer, actually," he told her, leaning across the desk and dropping his voice to a confidential whisper in a deliberate attempt to draw her out again, and maybe, just maybe, see quite how red her porcelain cheeks could get. He'd been in this pub for less than five minutes, and already he was playing with fire. It was a bad idea, and he knew it, but somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to stop.

She laughed, but it was a sad sound, somehow, a sound that spoke of a soul deeper and more unknowable than the sea itself, and though he did not know it yet, that was the moment he lost himself to her completely. "Aren't we all?" she said a bit wistfully.

And what the bloody hell was he supposed to say to that?

She spoke again, and saved him from himself. "Do you need something, Mister-?"

"Harrison," he said, giving his head a little shake and extending his hand to her. "James Harrison."

"Mr. Harrison," she said, dipping her head slightly in greeting as they shook. Her hand was small, her bones delicate and finely made, and something wrenched deep inside him when she pulled back from his grasp. She was cold to the touch, but Harry had warmth enough to spare, on this bleak midwinter's night.

 _Don't get too close,_ he warned himself.

With that in mind he took a physical step back from the desk, readjusting the rucksack on his shoulder.

"I've booked a room," he said.

The girl gave him another little nod and turned to the ledger book, running one finger down the page, her eyes roving endlessly until she found what she was searching for.

"Here we are," she said at last. "Room 214."

There was a series of pegs on the wall behind her, and she turned to them then, retrieving one old brass key.

"I'll take you up," she said, slipping out from behind the desk.

Harry followed along in her wake, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the ground, rather than lingering on the curve of her bottom, swaying deliciously in front of him. _Keep it together, Pearce. You have a job to do._


	5. Chapter 5

**15 July 2006**

Room 214 had undergone some rather serious renovations, since the last time Harry had set foot inside it. Where previously the floor had been covered by a beige, slightly dingy sort of carpet, pristine hardwood now gleamed up at him; no doubt some intrepid interior decorator – or Ruth herself – had pulled up the old carpet and been overjoyed to discover the treasure of the original panels hiding underneath. The walls, which had been painted blue – and mottled to gray by years of smoke and neglect – were now a smooth, clean white. The same exposed beams that decorated the ceiling of the barroom below were in evidence here as well, and coupled with the tasteful paintings of ocean vistas hanging in frames on the wall, the overall effect was rather rustic and charming. He smiled to see it; clearly, Ruth took her role as publican quite seriously, and in every inch of this room he could see her devotion, her attention to detail, could hear the quiet whisper of her name.

"Kitchen's open until 10:00 p.m., Sunday through Thursday," Maren told him, speaking rather quickly as she rattled off what was apparently a very familiar spiel. "Midnight on weekends. Bar closes at midnight on weekdays, and 2:00 a.m. on weekends. If you're coming or going after hours that key there will get you in the side door by the carpark. If you need something we don't have, make your way down to Ward's, they'll look after you."

Harry nodded; he knew all this already, of course, but he didn't want to interrupt her when she was in the middle of her little speech. While she was speaking, he dropped his black bag on the bed and spun in a slow circle, taking in the myriad changes the room had undergone and smiling just a little as he fondly recalled the time he had spent here. Oh, the operation had been a cock up from start to finish, but he had slept there in that bed, had wrapped his arms around Ruth and felt her shiver at his touch; it was in this very room that Harry had rediscovered his own heart, had been cleansed of his sins, had begun to heal.

"Need anything?" Maren asked him, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet and bringing to Harry's mind the image of an anxious runner crouched at the starting line. No doubt she had much more interesting things to do this evening than join Harry on his trip down memory lane, and so he only smiled, and dismissed her.

"Thank you for your assistance," he said. "I think I'm all set here."

"Right. Well. You know where to find us, if you change your mind," she told him, and before he could respond she was off like a shot, bounding down the corridor with all the youthful vigor one might expect from a girl so young, and so very pretty.

For a time Harry remained in the room, carefully stowing his possessions away in the small chest of drawers by the window, thinking carefully about his next move. Ostensibly, this was a simple operation; find a way to speak to Ruth alone, gather her intelligence, report back to John, and make his way home to London. Harry knew better, though; his many years of service had taught him that sometimes the simplest missions can become the most dangerous, if the agents involved did not seriously consider the risks.

It wouldn't do for him to court Ruth – as it were – too obviously; he didn't want to draw anyone's attention, and he recalled from his last visit here that the locals were a curious, and often quite chatty lot. Ruth herself had already done some of that work for him, in telling Maren that she remembered the wayward writer who had stayed in this pub all those many years before; it would not be so very strange for them to sit together of a night, reminiscing. But he mustn't push too hard, if for no other reason than that Ruth was possessed of a somewhat obstinate nature, and when pushed had a tendency of running in the opposite direction, just to prove she could. No doubt these people, these people who had known her since childhood, were well aware of this fact, and would think it strange if she responded kindly to a desperate man's overenthusiastic affections. Besides, it would like quite strange if he left after a single night in the pub, when the last time he had stayed for months on end, and the last thing Harry wanted to do was give himself cause to stand out. No, better to take things slow.

With that in mind he ventured into the small en suite, and spent rather a long moment staring at himself despondently in the mirror. His shirt and trousers were wrinkled, and there was no denying the weariness etched into every line of his face. He debated with himself for a moment about whether he ought to change his clothes; while he knew the sensible course of action would be to venture back down to the dining room wearing the same clothes he'd arrived in, there was a small, somewhat hopeful, decidedly irrational part of his heart that wanted to put his best foot forward when meeting Ruth again for the first time in twenty-one years.

 _Get ahold of yourself,_ Harry thought grimly. Really, this sort of preoccupation with his appearance was a vanity he had not indulged in for many years, not since injury had relegated him to a desk and decades of working too hard and drinking too much had stolen away the lean muscles he had boasted of in his youth. Dressed in a dark button-down shirt, open at the neck, his sleeves rolled up, his hair as neat as he could make it, he supposed he looked about as presentable as he could hope for, and so he took a deep breath, and made his way back down the stairs.

Back in the pub proper once more he lingered in the doorway for a moment, scanning the room in search of an empty table and trying not to stare too long at Ruth, dancing her barmaid's ballet on the far side of the room. She wore a soft, pale blue shirt – _chambray,_ Catherine would have called it – buttoned up enough to protect her modesty, but open at the throat, where a small silver necklace sparkled in the valley between her sharp collarbones. Around her waist she wore the same sort of white half-apron that Maren had been sporting, and between that and the bar Harry's view of the rest of her outfit was obscured. No matter; he'd be willing to bet that she was wearing a long, dark skirt and a pair of sensible boots, something with a chunky heel to give the illusion that she stood taller than her 5'4'' frame. Harry recalled rather vividly the first time he'd encountered Ruth _sans_ high heels; he'd been shocked to find she was a full head shorter than he.

There was an empty table just waiting for him in the far corner opposite the musicians, and so Harry made his way over to it, settling himself down with his back to the wall, and his eye fixed as ever on the proprietress behind the bar. It was still rather early in the evening, and a Friday to boot; Harry imagined it would be some time yet before he had Ruth all to himself. No matter; he decided to order supper, and a whiskey or two for good measure. Afterwards, he might well take a walk along the canal that had given the road its name, following the winding water all the way down to where Eglington Canal branched off the River Corrib; as he recalled there were a number of little shops and restaurants clustered together there, and while he might have no need of further food or drink, it would be nice to simply walk for a while, to do a bit of people watching without feeling as if the fate of the world depended on his observational skills.

It was Maren who came to take his order, smiling when she saw him seated there in the corner.

"You didn't get very far," she said in a playful sort of voice.

"Travelling is thirsty work," Harry answered, earning himself another brilliant smile. _Christ_ , but that was strange, that this girl should look so like the Ruth of his memories, and yet behave so differently.

He gave his order and she was gone in a twirl of dark hair, laughing raucously when a young man impeded her progress to whisper in her ear. At the sound of Maren's laugh Harry's eyes once more sought out Ruth across the room; she had heard it as well, it would seem, given that her eyes were focused on her daughter, and her full lips were turned down in the ghost of a frown. It was gone almost before Harry had the chance to process it, but there was no denying that Ruth wasn't pleased with Maren's display of familiarity. Harry supposed that likely had more to do with the young man in question than Maren's boisterousness, and resolved to add that to the list of questions he wanted to ask Ruth later.

All around him the pub swelled with life, with music, with laughter and the buzz of ceaseless chatter, and despite his own reservations Harry felt himself relax somewhat. It was a lovely summer's evening, and he was surrounded by people who seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves. Maren brought him out a fine supper and a finer glass of whiskey, and he savored them both while trying – and failing – to restrain himself from glancing at Ruth too often. She was much too far away for him to discern what she was saying at any given moment, but it was enough for him just to sit in this room, to know that she was there, that she appeared to be happy. The longer he put off their reunion the more he began to doubt the wisdom of his plan; it was entirely possible that in asking her to spy on her neighbors he would be putting her in grave danger. Whoever was behind the flow of weapons that had so disquieted Mulvaney was likely not the sort of person who would hesitate to kill a woman who had betrayed them. Ruth had built a good life for herself here, and she had a daughter to look after; Harry could not bear the thought of asking her to risk her safety, her security once more.

The hours ticked by; the constant, merciless sawing of the fiddle began to grate on Harry's nerves, and so he paid Maren for his food and drink, and set off on the footpath along the water's edge. He didn't get very far; perhaps a mile on from the pub there was a small all-night café that served a decent cup of tea, and it was there that Harry settled down, taking a seat at a small outdoor table and retrieving the notebook from his trouser-pocket. It was a bit battered, its pages yellowed with age, but contained within were all the notes he'd taken twenty years before, when he'd dutifully scribbled down every word spoken to him by every bleary-eyed old man in Shaw's pub. The handwriting upon the page was an untidy scrawl, written in a code so damn near indecipherable that Harry himself struggled to fully understand the story it told. For quite some time he amused himself as darkness fell and the city came to life all around him, translating his old notes and recalling the men who had so captivated his attention all those years before. There was little of note in the book, but Harry wanted to familiarize himself with this place once more, with the people he had known, with the man he had been and the girl who had captured his heart.

For buried in the pages of that book, hidden amongst the war stories and the bitter recriminations of English wrongdoing, was a portrait of a girl with steel in her bones and sorrow in her heart. Though Harry had not been so foolish as to keep an account of his every moment spent with her, he had kept a record of the important things; the day she proudly declared that she had finished reading _Ulysses_ , and the way her eyes had sparkled when he'd asked her where in the world she'd most like to travel. _I gave Ruth a necklace for her birthday,_ he'd written on one page, _and she was so delighted that I find myself concerned that she has never before received a present she actually liked._

 _I gave Ruth a necklace…_

Harry read the line again, flabbergasted. Though he could not be sure, having only spied her from a distance, it seemed to him there was something familiar about the necklace she was wearing this evening. That thought gave him pause, as it contained both a delicious potential and a heartbreaking sort of sorrow. Perhaps she had worn it because she knew he was coming, had rescued it from the bottom of her jewelry box and put it on for the first time in years with a fond smile on her face, or perhaps she had worn it every day, remembering and lamenting a man she thought she would never see again.

Then again, perhaps it was a different necklace altogether, and perhaps Harry thought much too highly of himself and the impression he had left on her.

When Harry grew tired of sitting he rose to his feet and walked for a bit longer, his steps keeping time with the chorus of the river winding along beside him. When he deemed the hour late enough he made his way back to Shaw's, and slipped once more into the pub.

With closing time fast approaching the crowd had thinned considerably; even the musicians had departed, for which Harry was duly grateful. Emboldened by the memories he'd unearthed in his little notebook he took a seat at the far end of the bar, and waited for Ruth to call upon him. She was occupied with a cluster of customers gathered around at the other end and, to his chagrin, kept her back firmly turned on Harry all the while. The silvery peel of her laugh taunted him, and he warred with himself, wondering if he ought to call out to her for service, or if he ought to simply sit in silence, and wait her out.

In the end he chose to hold his tongue; no one was paying him any notice, and so he waited, watching the minutes tick down until 2:00 a.m.

Ruth shooed the last stragglers out of the pub with a fond smile on her face, slipping out from behind the bar to usher them to the door. Strangely, though she took the time to roust not only her enraptured audience from the bar but also those intrepid souls who had holed up in the many booths that lined the outskirts of the room, she paid no mind to the gentleman waiting for her in the shadows. Strange, too, he noted, that the three or four girls – Maren included – who had been serving as waitresses this evening were nowhere to be found.

"Mind how you go," Ruth called cheerfully, chasing the last of her patrons out into the night. From his seat at the bar Harry clearly heard the heavy bolt on the front door sliding into place. Clearly heard Ruth's sigh of relief echoing in the resultant silence. Clearly heard the sharp click of her bootheels as she crossed the foyer, reentering the dining room and tugging the heavy oaken doors closed behind her.

 _Now we shall see what we shall see,_ Harry thought as he watched her from across the room. In the absence of the Friday night crowd the dining room seemed practically cavernous, and the gulf between Harry and Ruth seemed a chasm too deep, too broad to cross. She leaned back against the doors, running her fingers through her soft, dark hair; for the first time all night, her smile was nowhere in evidence. She looked as weary as he felt, every line on her face thrown into sharp relief by the muted lights dangling from the ceiling. There was a beauty and a tragedy in that face, a face that spoke so eloquently of loss, and Harry was drunk on the sight of her, unwilling to speak, unwilling to move, hardly willing to breathe lest this illusion should shatter, lest she should disappear like a puff of smoke upon the wind.

"Hello, James," Ruth said softly.


	6. Chapter 6

**15 July 2006**

"Hello, Ruth," Harry murmured in response. His throat was tight, his mouth suddenly dry, and he found himself incapable of uttering another word as he sat at the bar, staring across the empty room at the woman who had haunted his dreams for the last twenty-one years. As he watched her, he realized that his earlier suppositions were correct; she was wearing a long, dark skirt and boots. Some things never changed, he supposed; no matter how much time had passed, no matter what she had endured, she was still _Ruth,_ and looking at her then he realized that she still possessed the ability to make him lose all sense of reason. For he was surely lost; he would have liked nothing better, in than instant, than to go to her, to wrap her in his arms, and kiss her senseless. He knew nothing of her life now, had hardly recognized the woman he'd seen smiling and laughing behind the bar, but the face she presented to him now was hauntingly familiar. Uncertainty shone from the depths of her glorious eyes, and as she stood leaned against the bar she began to wring her hands together, the way she had so often done when she was young and full of doubt.

"I wasn't sure you'd come."

When she spoke, Ruth's voice was low and warm and dripping with trepidation. She would not meet his gaze, but there was nothing new in that; she had always found it safer to direct her attentions to the floor, as if she knew that her every emotion, her every thought, could be read upon her face, and she wished to hide herself away.

"You asked to see me," Harry told her softly. "Of course I came."

Perhaps it was too forward of him, to make such a pronouncement, to tell her in his own way that he would come when she called, no matter what, no matter when. If she had asked for him, had rung him in the night, had sent him a postcard, had tried in any way to reach him at any moment in the years since he'd last seen her, Harry would have dropped everything, and come to her. Though he'd grumbled, when John had first asked for his assistance, the truth was that he'd made up his mind the moment he first heard that she'd asked for him. He could no more deny her than he could stop the beating of his heart in his chest. He felt himself bound to her, in a way, his heart lashed to hers by ropes tied with knots he could not untangle, though he had tried, many times over the years, to forget. Tried to tell himself it was all in his head, that no woman could be as wonderful as his recollections of her. Despite his attempts to convince himself otherwise, he knew that what they had shared, all those many years before, was a closeness, a yearning the likes of which he had never experienced, before or since.

Slowly, hesitatingly, Ruth made her way across the room; Harry's heart rate tripled, when she first began to approach, and he fought back a wave of bitter disappointment when she slipped behind the bar once more rather than coming to sit beside him. _What did you expect?_ He asked himself grimly. They had not seen one another in twenty years; whatever romantic notions he might harbor regarding the state of their relationship, there was no guarantee that she felt the same, and he knew Ruth too well to try to predict her behavior. The inner workings of her mind, the subtle, tortuous twistings and turnings of her conscience, were a mystery he knew he'd never be able to unravel.

Ruth seemed to regain a bit of her confidence, once she resumed her customary position behind the bar. As he watched her, his eyes hungrily drinking every detail of her, it seemed to him that she stood a little taller, that her movements were more sure and certain than they had been a moment before. She turned her back to him and quietly set about pouring a glass of wine for herself – and a measure of scotch for Harry – with an ease borne of practice. It did not escape his notice that she poured his drink from the most expensive bottle on the shelf, and so when she handed him his glass, he offered her his most earnest thanks.

"I can't stay long," Ruth told him in that gentle voice he loved so well. _Christ,_ he'd only been back in this city for a matter of hours, and already he felt himself completely in her thrall, thrown back to the heady days of their short-lived affair. It was addictive in its own way, this feeling of desire swirling round and round inside him. There was a familiar sweetness to it, and he craved the oblivion he recalled so fondly. The past may well be a foreign country, but it was one Harry desperately longed to revisit. Would it be the same, he wondered; would he find the same sanctuary, the same peace, the same ecstasy in her arms? Could she know him now as she had known him then, read the truth of him with a single look? Could she ever love him, love the man he had become, the monster lurking beneath his thin veneer of respectability? Harry wasn't sure, and he didn't particularly want to find out. Perhaps wondering, in this particular instance, was better than knowing for a certainty.

"I have to be back here at seven in the morning," she continued.

 _Does she do this every night?_ He asked himself. Stay up late, close down the pub all by herself, and then resume her post less than five hours later? How long had it been, since she'd last slept the whole night through?

"Don't let me keep you," he said, though he hastened to explain himself when he saw the hurt flashing in her eyes. "I will stay here as long as I need to, Ruth. We can talk tomorrow, after you've had a chance to rest."

That mollified her somewhat; her expression softened, though her gaze remained firmly fixed on her wine glass. She did not seem in any particular hurry to divulge her information to him, and for his part Harry had no plans to press her. He'd only just arrived, and the very idea of leaving her once more was unbearable. In truth he'd given little thought as to how and when he might extract himself; he could not imagine leaving her again, when he'd only just rediscovered her. Though John would be pressing him for answers Harry had an agenda of his own, and for once he fully intended to put his own selfish desires first.

With that in mind, he delicately broached the topic that had been weighing heavily on his mind from the moment he'd arrived.

"Maren is a lovely girl," he said, watching her carefully, attempting to gage her reaction. There was a question hidden beneath the rather innocuous statement, and he knew that Ruth, being possessed of a heart that was both poetic and deeply analytical, would have heard the words he chose not to say. _Where did she come from, this girl who looks so like you? What man was worthy enough, to bind his heart to yours?_

In response Ruth said only, "thank you." He had no doubt that she had heard him, had seen through the civility of his words, and deliberately chosen to avoid that particular conversation. She offered up no details, gave no display of maternal pride, and that in itself troubled Harry a great deal. In his experience, most parents required only the gentlest of prodding to launch into a lengthy discussion of how wonderful their children were. Though he had no doubt that Ruth loved her daughter, this reticence to speak of her set him ill at ease. _Should I say something about Catherine?_ He mused. His girl was only a few years older than Maren; would it make Ruth more comfortable, if he shared a piece of himself before asking her to do the same? In the end he decided against it, reasoning that to speak of his daughter would only serve to remind Ruth of the bitter truth, that while they were together he had been married to another woman, that he lived a life that did not have room enough to include Ruth.

"How is the lovely Jane?" Ruth asked him after a time in a wry sort of voice. She took a sip of her wine, considering him over the rim of her glass, her eyes hard and for once unreadable. The question caught Harry unawares and he could not fathom where it had come from, the intent behind it. What was she trying to tell him, asking after his wife? Was she trying to remind him that their tryst had been indecent, was she trying to tell him that she had no wish to commit such an act again?

Harry spoke before he could stop himself. "I'm told she's well, but I wouldn't know. We've been divorced for some time now."

At this Ruth gave a little nod, took another sip of her wine, and Harry fancied he saw a flash of something that looked too much like sorrow cross her face. He hated this, truly he did, this verbal sparring, dancing around one another, trying and failing to read between the lines. He hoped that Ruth had not misunderstood him, that she was not even now asking herself what had possibly made Harry leave his wife, when she herself had been powerless to do the same.

Though it might have been foolish in the extreme, Harry took a gamble, and told her the truth.

"She left me, you see. Jane. I told her I'd been with someone else, and that I didn't love her, any more."

"James," Ruth breathed, and still that sadness seemed to linger in her, though Harry could not for the life of him imagine why. "You didn't. _Please_ , tell me you didn't."

Having already embarked on this path, Harry felt he had no choice but to continue. "I did. It would never have worked, Jane and me. We…weren't well-suited. I should have been brave enough to end things between us long before I did. Might have spared our children some unnecessary aggravation." It was important to him that Ruth understood that while their affair might have been the impetus for his divorce, it was not the only cause. There were a million reasons why he'd fallen out with Jane; sleeping with Ruth had just given him the courage to admit to his mistakes, and try to put things to rights.

Silence lingered in the wake of his declaration. It seemed that Ruth did not know how to respond to such honesty from a man she'd not spoken to for two decades, and Harry had already confessed to more than he ever should have. He was breaking every rule in the book, when it came to handling an asset, but Ruth was not _just_ an asset; she never had been. There was something cathartic, in speaking those words aloud; he had never talked about his divorce with anyone, not with friends or with the in-house psychiatrist, though Clive had recommended it quite firmly at the time. The knowledge that he had caused so much pain to his family, to the people he was supposed to cherish and support and protect at all costs, had long weighed heavy on his heart, his greatest failing, his greatest regret. Not that he regretted his divorce; he knew that he and Jane could never have continued on together. No, what Harry regretted was marrying Jane in the first place, was the years he'd spent pretending to be someone he wasn't, was the knowledge that Catherine and Graham had been brought into the world on the pretext of a lie, and that they had suffered for it their entire lives.

Ruth swallowed the rest of her wine in one gulp.

"I can't do this tonight, James," she breathed. "I'm so _tired,"_ her voice broke when she spoke the word, and Harry realized then that she wasn't speaking of the physical exhaustion brought about by the end of a long day, but rather something deeper, a weariness etched into her very bones.

"Go to sleep," he told her, finishing his scotch. "We can talk tomorrow."

The silence returned then, stretching thick and taut between them. Ruth's eyes shone in the dim lights of the pub, and though the bar-top still kept them firmly apart, Harry felt himself drawn to her, felt certain that without that obstacle impeding them he would have already pulled her into his arms, would have already flung her up against the nearest wall and buried himself inside her. That tension, that need, that fire burned just on the periphery, and he could read in the lines and curves of her the same yearning to consign herself to the flames that threatened to overwhelm him.

 _This is dangerous,_ he thought. It was madness, to think that the sins of his past could be forgiven by a quick and thorough shag, that unbreaking her heart would be as easy as kissing her lips and whispering promises he knew he could not keep. That had not worked in the past; though he had sworn his love to her, she had never returned the sentiment, had chided him even, had reminded him at every turn that he was lying, and she knew it.

"Tomorrow, then," she said, and when she spoke, her voice trembled.

"Tomorrow," Harry agreed.

Still, they lingered, watching one another, until it all became too much for Ruth to bear.

"You can see yourself out," she said, not even looking at him as she disappeared through the kitchen door, fading from view, leaving him wondering if their encounter had truly happened at all, or if he had simply conjured her up by wishing it were so.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This chapter is for Marty Swale, who requested a flashback.**

* * *

 **12 January 1985**

Harry didn't actually smoke cigarettes. He never had done, but he had found that when on operation it was often rather useful to keep a pack in his jacket pocket; a cigarette provided a convenient excuse, should he need to leave a crowded place in a hurry without raising questions about his departure, and it also provided a convenient conversation starter, should he need to find a quick way to bond with a mark. Cigarettes worked much like a good glass of beer, he'd found; men were more likely to talk to him, to trust him, to bring him into their confidences, if they held one in their hand.

Shaw's pub did not prohibit smoking indoors; in fact, they all but encouraged it, as he'd discovered to his dismay on his first foray into the dining room. A thick cloud seemed to blanket everything in sight, distorting his vision and overwhelming his olfactory senses unpleasantly. Still, though, Harry had made his excuses to the grizzled old dockworker who'd been talking his ear off for the last half an hour, and made his way outside. It was not a particularly pleasant night to be standing around on the pavement, especially when Harry knew that there was a nice warm bed waiting for him upstairs, but having established the pretense he felt he had no choice but to follow through. He lit the cigarette and let it dangle uselessly from his fingertips, stamping his feet to ward off the chill.

So far he'd been in Galway for just under a week, and he had very few leads. The customers in the pub were more than happy to talk, so long as Harry was buying the drinks, but very little of what they said was of any use to him. The old man he'd been chatting to earlier in the evening had gone on at length about the myriad clever smuggling methods he'd encountered over the years, and as fascinating as it was to listen to the tales of drugs secreted away inside books and Glenlivet bottles and, in one instance, inside a girl's fake pregnancy belly, Harry was beginning to feel a bit irritated with the whole charade. Everywhere he turned he was greeted by innuendo, by suggestive comments and sly sidelong glances, but no one had been willing to expose any real details.

His best lead, at present, was a man called Connor Kelly. Kelly had moved to Galway from Belfast some three years prior, bringing with him his wife and three grown sons. Though Kelly and his boys had many friends among those who frequented Shaw's pub – Shaw included – they had their fair share of detractors as well. Since Harry was operating under the guise of writing a novel about the long-running conflict in Ireland his subjects were more than willing to point him towards those locals who were possessed of particularly strong opinions, and Kelly's name kept cropping up, though it was almost always accompanied by a warning to tread lightly. Harry had taken that warning to heart; though he desperately wanted to bring this operation to a conclusion, sooner rather than later, he knew better than to act rashly. The men he'd met were a prickly sort, and if _they_ were wary of Kelly, it stood to reason that Harry ought to be as well. He'd be of no use to the Prime Minister if he found himself decorating the bottom of Eglinton canal.

As Harry stood shivering in the cold outside the pub, he thought about Kelly, and how best to approach him. It would need to be done carefully; a man like that, a hard man, one who spent his days toiling away at backbreaking labor and his nights brawling and boozing in a seedy pub, was not the sort who would be impressed by a famous English novelist. No, Harry didn't think Kelly would take too kindly to the suggestion of an interview; one of his more helpful sources had pointed Kelly out to him a few nights before, gesturing discretely towards a tall, dark-haired man leaning against the bar and laughing with Shaw. The man was burly, broad-shouldered and he did not look altogether friendly; though they were too far apart for Harry to make out what Kelly had been saying, Harry liked the look of the man not one bit. Of course, Harry was also not very kindly disposed to Shaw at present; his host had been rather short with him, and never missed an opportunity to obliquely suggest that Harry might be happier in other, more friendly accommodations. Whether this had more to do with Harry's English accent or his bourgeoning friendship with the man's stepdaughter, Harry hadn't a clue.

 _Oh, Ruth,_ Harry thought, feeling rather tempted to take a drag from the half-burned cigarette in his hand. It seemed the thing to do, given how despondent his circumstances had become. Alone in a strange city, in a place where his very voice made him a target for barbed comments and pointing fingers, miles and miles away from his wife and his children, floundering along with nothing but his own morose thoughts for company, Harry had begun to feel rather melancholy indeed. In the years since Bill Crombie's death, Harry had felt his soul slowly blackening like the smoke-tainted walls of Shaw's pub, had felt the heavy weight of his own dark deeds dragging him further and further away from the parts of his life that had once brought him joy. His smiles were infrequent, now, where before his old friend had been able to goad him into mirth no matter how dire their circumstances. He still dreamed about Bill sometimes, Bill the way he had been before, when they were young and happy and as yet unbowed by death and violence, and Bill the way he had been at the end, burned and blackened and tortured beyond all recognition. Sometimes Harry thought he would never be free of that image, those smoldering remains that had once been his best friend. He'd all but given up hope of ever feeling anything other than crushing sadness, and then _she_ had come stumbling into his life.

Though for the most part Harry had kept his promise to himself and avoided spending more than a moment or two alone with Ruth, he could not help but feel drawn to her somehow. There was a sorrow in her eyes, a darkness that called to him, that seemed to whisper _here is one who has felt pain, here is one who understands you._ They had spoken quietly of books – she was nearly finished with _Ulysses,_ though she confessed that her work at the pub was cutting into her reading time, and she had been somewhat delayed. They had talked of music – she had a bewildering fondness for Wham! that Harry had teased her for delightedly. They had not spoken of her family, or his, or of the demons that seemed to dance just on the edges of their consciousness. More than once Harry had returned to the pub late at night, and found her sitting quietly at the desk in the foyer, well away from the bustle and the noise of the dining room, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes downcast, and he had wondered what could weigh so heavy on a heart so young.

Through the haze of his recollections a single sound emerged, wafting towards him over the sound of traffic and the burbling of the water in the canal; Ruth's voice, drifting across the frigid January air, as if his thoughts of her had conjured her on the spot. He could not make out what she was saying, but her tone left no doubt that, whatever was happening, she was not pleased. Without a second thought Harry pitched his cigarette onto the pavement and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe before going in search of her.

The sound of her voice beckoned him on; he made his way around the edge of the building, toward the carpark tucked away behind it, and there he found Ruth, surrounded by a gaggle of drunken young men. It was a Saturday evening, and Harry supposed the lads had nothing better to do than drink too much and bother pretty girls. Ruth had apparently been in the process of carrying the rubbish out to the dumpster at the back of the carpark when she had been waylaid by the group of hooligans; the bag she'd been carrying had burst, and the rubbish littered the ground at her feet. She was red-faced and berating them in a language Harry could not immediately place; it took him a moment, but then he realized she was speaking Irish, though it was less clear whether or not the boys understood her.

One of them was taunting her; he'd taken something from her, and was holding it aloft, hooting with laughter each time she made a lunge for it. The young man was nearly a foot taller than she was, and it was no difficult thing for him to keep the object out of her reach. His mates egged him on, laughing and kicking at the rubbish, and in their midst Ruth looked to be on the edge of tears. The sight of her so desperate and distressed tore at Harry's heartstrings, and loosed a quiet rage within him.

The boys had formed a little semi-circle around Ruth, their backs to Harry, and none of them heard him approach on silent feet. Even Ruth did not see him, until he kicked the instigator smartly in the back of the knee and sent him sprawling to the pavement. The laughter died away, and the young man cried out in pain; as he had been distracted by whatever he held in his hands he had not thrown his arms out to catch himself, and his chin had cracked sharply on the ground when he fell. His mates fell back, rather than moving in on Harry; it was clear that the young man on the ground was the ringleader, and without him there to goad them into action, they were hesitant to engage, particularly given the ferocity of Harry's attack. The young man tried to stand and Harry kicked him in the ribs once more for good measure, using the opportunity to retrieve the stolen object from his grip. It was _Ulysses;_ no doubt one of the boys had snatched it from Ruth's apron-pocket while she had been occupied with the rubbish.

"Leave. Now," Harry said in his most dangerous voice. The boys did not protest; they helped their fallen comrade to his feet, blood streaming from his chin, and the lot of them departed, casting murderous glances at him as they went. That surprised Harry, in truth; he had anticipated a brawl, and was, somewhat foolishly, rather disappointed that he had been denied. Not that fighting outside of pubs was a favorite pastime of his; he just felt so bloody useless, trapped in this godforsaken place, and he would have appreciated the chance to vent some of his frustration. At the very least, it would have helped to warm him up.

Through all of this Ruth had stared in silent, wide-eyed horror; he turned to her, once he was sure that the boys were not about to come tearing around the corner with knives in their hands, and held out her book.

"Are you all right?" he asked her gently as she snatched it from his grip, carefully wiping away the dirt and refuse that had gathered on it during its brief sojourn on the ground.

She nodded, still looking rather rattled. "Thank you," she said.

"Who were those boys?" Harry asked. Ruth had started gathering up the scattered rubbish, trying dispiritedly to gather it all into the ruined bag. Though he was freezing, and rather tired, Harry bent to help her.

"Ryan Kelly and his goons," Ruth told him, venom in her voice. "Bastard thinks he can do whatever he likes, just because everyone's afraid of his father."

 _Of course he's Kelly's son,_ Harry thought.

"He's a cowardly little shit," he said, trying to reassure her. He meant it, too; Ryan Kelly looked to be of an age with Ruth, which meant that he was much too old to be playing stupid games like the one Harry had broken up moments before. The boy hadn't even tried to defend himself; _he'd probably piss his pants, if he ever got into a real fight,_ Harry thought. That was something Harry would quite like to see, actually. In fact, at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to track Ryan Kelly down, and kick him again.

"I _hate_ him," Ruth said, her voice cracking just a little. "I hate him, and I hate this stupid pub, and I hate this stupid city." She took a deep breath, as if to calm herself, but it had the opposite effect; she promptly burst into tears, ducking her head and cradling her book to her chest.

Without another thought Harry ceased his attempts to tidy the mess at their feet and drew her into his arms; she sagged against him, her arms tucked between them as she refused to release her hold on the book, her head coming to rest just beneath his chin. For several long moments they stood thus in the chill January air, Harry running his hands soothingly up and down her back, trying to keep her warm, trying to calm her, trying to let her know that she was safe here, with him. After a time her sobs trailed off and she ceased her trembling but Harry was loath to let her go, and she made no move to disentangle herself from him. She was soft and warm, sheltered within the protective circle of his arms, and the earthy scent of her hair enchanted him, left him wishing he could take her inside, lead her up the stairs, and lose himself inside her. _Watch yourself,_ he thought grimly. _You've a wife at home, and she's just a girl._

With that in mind he gently eased himself away from her, clasping her arms and searching her face. She looked haggard, but still she managed to offer him a watery smile.

"Were you speaking Irish, before?" he asked her as she took a step back from him and safely stowed her book in her apron once more.

Ruth blushed and ducked her head, focusing her attentions on the rubbish and refusing to meet his gaze.

"I was born in An Spidéal," she confessed, as if this ought to mean something to Harry. "My father always spoke Irish at home. He taught me."

This was only the second time Ruth had mentioned her father, who had died when she was young, and for the second time Harry was struck by how devastated she still seemed by his loss. It was clear that whatever sort of man he had been, he had left quite an impression on his daughter, and she missed him terribly.

"It's a beautiful language," Harry said. He just wanted to say something _,_ anything to keep her in this moment with him, to spend just a little more time in her company. It _was_ a beautiful language, to his mind; at least it was beautiful when the lilting cadences were dripping like honey from her lips. She could say whatever she liked to him, in whatever language she fancied, so long as she used that warm, gentle voice he had grown to love so well.

Their moment of peace was shattered then by a sharp bark of "Ruth!" from the doorway behind them.

It was Shaw, his head poking around the doorframe, his expression thunderous. "What the hell are you playing at, girl? You're needed inside!"

"Coming!" Ruth called back.

Shaw grunted something unintelligible and disappeared into the pub, leaving a blushing, somewhat flustered Ruth fidgeting on the pavement.

"I've got to go," she said, though there was no need for further clarification. Harry briefly entertained the notion of going inside and giving Shaw a good kick, too, but he refrained, reminding himself for the thousandth time that he was on a mission here, a mission that had nothing to do with pretty Irish girls.

"Of course. Have a good night, Ruth," he told her.

"And you, James," she answered. As he watched she gathered up the remains of the rubbish and made her way out into the night. Harry tucked his hands into his pockets and retreated into the pub, his thoughts consumed by her, and by the memory of how she'd felt, wrapped in his arms.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Apologies for the delay; a combination of bad weather, severe gastrointestinal distress, and preparations for moving house took up all of my free time this past week. Chapters will likely come at irregular intervals until things settle down a bit.**

* * *

 **16 July 2006**

Harry woke gritty-eyed and irritable the next morning; he'd slept but little, his thoughts consumed by Ruth and a thousand questions he feared he'd never be brave enough to ask. Though she'd danced a merry dance and put on a happy face for her customers the night before, it was clear to him that she was, as ever, plagued by a sorrow that haunted him. The heartbreak she'd endured in his absence had impressed itself upon her face, in the lines at the corners of her mouth and her eyes. She was still lovely, still shone with a light that no amount of devastation could dim; hers was a beauty made all the more potent by her perseverance, by her inner strength, by the knowledge that she continued on, despite the unpleasantness of her circumstances. It was a beauty that had bewitched him utterly.

With a groan Harry rolled to the side, planting his feet on the floor and resting his elbows on his knees, rolling his shoulders to try to work out the kinks that had formed as a result of sleeping on an unfamiliar mattress. The small clock on the bedside table told him it had just gone seven o'clock; Ruth would be downstairs even now, organizing the cooks and the waitstaff in preparation for the breakfast crowd. The last time Harry had come to Galway he had enjoyed many a fine, greasy breakfast in the pub's dining room, and he had every intention of availing himself of Ruth's hospitality at the first opportunity. He would need a shower first, though, would need to wash away the grime of a day spent traveling and a night spent worrying, would need to put his best foot forward as he stepped inside his legend.

As he went through the motions of his morning routine, Harry considered his next moves. The brief for this mission was simple enough: play the tourist, and find a way to speak to Ruth alone. He had fond memories of the moments they'd snatched alone together during slow, languorous Saturday mornings in the past; Ruth would be dispatched by her stepfather to go and clean the rooms upstairs, and on more than one occasion she had tumbled into the bed she was meant to be tidying with Harry wrapped around her. Despite its prime location and relative cleanliness the pub never played host to more than a bare handful of guests, and the morning was the best time for Harry and Ruth to take advantage of the many empty rooms upstairs, while Shaw was in the dining room nursing a hangover and the rest of the pub was mercifully quiet. Though Harry imagined that the cleaning now fell to Maren or another of the young women he'd spotted in the pub the night before, it seemed to him that midmorning, after the breakfasters had departed and before the lunch crowd arrived, would be the best time to try to meet up with Ruth.

But how to arrange it? He couldn't very well sit in the dining room for hours on end, waiting for an opening; that might draw suspicion, a single man lingering alone and staring forlornly at Ruth all the while. No, this would require slightly more finesse. An idea began to form in his mind as he finished buttoning up his crisp white shirt and pocketed his little notebook, and as he made his way out of his room he fought the urge to whistle a little tune. The excitement that accompanied the start of any mission added a bit of spring to his step, and he was very nearly smiling as he descended the stairs.

The foyer was mercifully deserted, the dull buzz of chatter and clink of coffee mugs filtering in from the dining room the only indication that others in the house were up at this hour. Harry took advantage of his solitude to peruse the ledger book on the desk in the corner, and took note of which rooms were occupied; at present, the pub was playing host to only three guests, and this left several rooms available for later use, should Ruth be amenable to his suggestion of a clandestine meeting.

Inside the dining room Ruth was nowhere to be seen, however, and Harry's spirits fell somewhat. Maren was in place behind the bar, yawning as she spoke to two grizzled old timers sitting at the far end over cups of coffee and plates of fried bacon. She looked up when Harry entered, and offered him one of her bright, brilliant smiles.

"You're awfully cheerful this morning," she said as she crossed the bar to greet him.

"I'll be even more cheerful once I've had a cup of coffee," Harry responded, earning him a tinkling little laugh. She really was a charming girl, was Maren; she had all of her mother's heart, and none of her grief. At his words she fetched down a cup and filled it for him unprompted, passing it across to him with a calculating sort of look.

"Are you really a writer?" she asked him curiously, resting her elbows on the bar top and turning the full-force of those radiant blue eyes on him. "Or are you just one of those twats who says things like that to impress people?"

 _Perhaps she's not so like Ruth, after all,_ Harry mused ruefully. The girl he'd known had not been possessed of such a frank turn of phrase, and she had been all the more beguiling for her bashfulness, her earnestness, her gentleness. _Christ, get ahold of yourself._

"I really am a writer. The book I wrote the first time I was here is called _Ghosts of Galway._ I'm sure I could find a copy for you somewhere, if you're in need of proof."

"Please do," she told him, batting those thick eyelashes at him.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. No doubt Maren, like waitresses the world over, had discovered long ago that a bit of flirting went a long way towards making customers less irritable, and more inclined to leave a big tip. He had no interest in indulging her, at present; in addition to being significantly younger than his own daughter, she had the distinct disadvantage of looking like Ruth without actually _being_ Ruth. There was only one Evershed woman Harry was interested in trading words with today, and she was nowhere in sight. Another objection rose in his mind, a niggling little suspicion that had taken root the night before, when he had noted Ruth's reticence to speak about her daughter. The girl looked to be about twenty; likely she'd been born not long after Harry left. This gave him pause, though he tried to remind himself that he did not know precisely how old she was, that he had no reason to believe he'd left a piece of himself to haunt Ruth's steps every minute they were apart from one another.

"I'm going to walk around the city, after I've eaten," Harry told her. "Perhaps I'll pop in a bookshop, and pick up a copy for you."

"A copy of what?" a soft voice asked near his ear, making him jump and nearly spill his coffee all down his front.

Harry turned sharply on his stool, and found himself face-to-face with Ruth. There was no sign of the dejectedness that had so colored her features the night before; her face was schooled into a carefully neutral expression, and she looked decidedly more rested than Harry felt.

"Mr. Harrison is going to bring me a copy of his book, to prove he's a real writer," Maren explained. As she was speaking she had turned away from them to retrieve a second cup, filling it with coffee and passing it off to her mother unasked. This at least she had inherited from Ruth, this bone deep understanding of what was needed, what was appropriate, that silent, wide-eyed understanding that had so baffled Harry as a younger man.

Ruth smiled softly as she accepted her coffee. "There's no need for that, Mr. Harrison," she told him. "I have a copy on the shelf at home."

 _Of course you do._

The book _had_ actually been published under the name James Harrison; back in 1985 Five had called in a favor with a travel writer who had gotten himself into a tight spot in Belfast, and the man had begrudgingly agreed to write and publish the book under a pseudonym, with the understanding that he got to keep all of the proceeds, of which there were very little.

"Oh, well, that's all right then," Maren said. With that she shuffled away, wiping her hands on her apron as she slipped through the door into the kitchen, and Ruth resumed her rightful place behind the bar. Harry watched her all the while, the careful, gentle movements of her body, the familiar little smile she gave to the old men sitting at the corner, and as he did an ache such as he had not known for many years filled him. This was torture, being so near to her, and yet so completely unable to express himself, his regrets and his fears.

To keep himself occupied he retrieved his notebook from his trouser-pocket, scribbling nonsense patterns on the page and watching Ruth out of the corner of his eye. There were a few other patrons scattered around the room, and he was trying to devise a way to slip a note to Ruth without drawing attention to himself.

He ordered a full fry-up, and tucked in with a will, giving every appearance of being focused on his food while in truth he was listening with every fiber of his being, trying to pick out the lilting strains of Ruth's rich voice over the chatter and clinking of plates. This was a rather foolish endeavor; though he heard her laugh, once or twice, she was too far away for him to make out what she was saying.

 _Just as well,_ he told himself. Carefully he tore a page from his notebook and wrote out _216, 10:00_ in small, neat handwriting. He used the edge of the bar for cover, and folded the page until it was roughly the size and shape of the notes he intended to use to pay for his breakfast. Once he was satisfied he fixed his eyes on Ruth, and waited for her to notice him.

It only took a moment; as ever, she seemed to sense that he was seeking her out, and across the bar those eyes that so captivated him flashed at him in question. He gave her a little nod, and she made her way towards him at once.

"Thank you for a lovely breakfast," Harry told her, handing over the money.

Ruth shuffled through the notes, ostensibly checking to see that he had not overpaid, and Harry saw the moment she registered the message hidden amongst the money. As always, she was discrete, even in her surprise; she pocketed the note smoothly and made her way across the till to deposit the money utterly unperturbed.

"Any big plans for the day?" she asked him casually as she returned to clear his plate.

"I thought I'd take a walk along the river, reacquaint myself with the area."

All the while he watched her, looking for some sign that she had agreed to his plan, that she was happy about it, that she felt anything at all, about seeing him alone again so soon, but Ruth gave nothing away.

"It's a beautiful day for it," she told him.

 _You're beautiful,_ Harry thought, but he wisely did not say this aloud. She was bustling away from him, getting on with the business of her day, and Harry supposed that this was as much validation as he was going to receive for his efforts. He sighed, trying to tell himself to be satisfied with their continued charade of cool courtesy, and made to leave, but she brought him up short.

"Oh, I almost forgot," she said. "Your change."

Harry required no change; he'd paid the exact amount. Bewildered he reached out to receive her offering, and wisely tucked it into his pocket; he did not doubt that she had slipped him a note of her own, but he intended to read it alone in the foyer, rather than subject himself to the scrutiny of the dining room. He was fairly impressed with her ingenuity; even he hadn't noticed her scribbling, though he supposed she must have done it while she'd been occupied with the till.

He thanked her for breakfast, and departed, stopping by the desk in the foyer to read her note.

 _No. The house. Back door. 10:30._

 _Very well,_ he thought. He'd meet Ruth at her house at 10:30; that left him two and a half hours to wander, and try to prepare for what was to come.


	9. Chapter 9

**16 July 2006**

Once again, Harry didn't get very far along in his walk before he stopped for a cup of tea, and a nice long think. He had hoped that the crisp, clean air of a beautiful summer morning might serve to clear his mind, to help him in some way to prepare for his meeting with Ruth. He was wrong, however; though he and Ruth had never been so foolish as to go walking around the city together, he found that everywhere he turned he was confronted by something that reminded him of her, of them, of the bleak winter he'd spent in this city, of all the little moments that had led to the end of his marriage and the utter ruination of his personal life.

He had never, would never, _could_ never blame Ruth for that. His love for her might have been the catalyst when it came to his decision to leave Jane, but somewhere deep in his heart he knew that he and Jane had well and truly left one another long before he ever set foot in Galway. There could be no doubt, he and Jane were better off without another; she'd remarried some years before, and though Catherine was loath to discuss her mother with him, he understood that Jane had overcome the darkness that haunted her in the wake of his departure, and that she was happy once again. For that at least he was grateful. Though Harry himself had spent the last twenty years alone, unwilling and unable to seek out another long-term partner for himself, at least Jane was well, was not permanently scarred by their time together.

There was a whole host of reasons to explain Harry's longstanding state of bachelorhood; his job demanded nearly every moment of his time, and he was required to keep the details of his daily work private, which in turn made forming any lasting relationships outside of work rather difficult, as he'd yet to find a woman who was comfortable sharing her life with a man she could not trust. And he had learned, to his shame, that forming relationships with coworkers was dangerous as well; Juliet Shaw had very nearly been the end of him. All of these seemed to him to be perfectly reasonable excuses for keeping to himself, and if there was a piece of his heart that whispered softly to him that he had been waiting, all this time, for a dark-haired girl with constellations in her eyes, he chose not to listen to it.

The appointed meeting time drew ever closer, and finally Harry was forced to abandon the café and make his way back to the pub. The little proprietor's house was tucked away behind the main building, all but hidden from view by a copse of scrubby trees. It was hardly more than a cottage; Harry had never set foot inside – as a young man he had not had a death wish, and had known better than to tempt Shaw's wrath so blatantly – but Ruth had spoken to him of it, told him how she'd felt trapped within those walls, uncomfortably close to her constantly quarreling mother and stepfather, and her wayward stepbrother. As he approached, Harry hoped that Ruth was more at home there now, that the little house felt more cozy with her and her daughter inside, that it no longer stifled her so. The thought of her remaining trapped in a place she had so passionately hated left him ill at ease.

It was an easy business, slipping between the trees and making his way down the little path unseen. Though the sun had well and truly risen, there were few people about, and Harry knew a thing or two about passing by undetected.

The house, like many in the area, was sturdy, built of stone and designed to withstand the elements of life in a port city. The garden was lush, wild and overgrown; a riot of flowers in a multitude of varieties bloomed seemingly at will along the pathway, and the planters by the front steps were overrun by creeping vines. A blown-glass butterfly mounted on a metal post had been shoved lackadaisically into one of them, and the sight of it brought a smile to his lips.

With that smile firmly in place, thoughts of Ruth and all the heady potential of their reunion flitting through his mind, Harry reached out and knocked smartly upon the door.

From within there came a soft crashing sound, followed by an equally soft voice muttering _shit;_ after a moment the door swung wide, to reveal a slightly flustered Ruth, a bit of flour smeared across one cheek and a rueful expression on her face.

"Come in," she said breathlessly, stepping aside to give him space to enter her home for the first time.

Harry murmured his thanks and brushed past her, noting the smell of fresh baked bread that filled the little cottage and stirred something deep within him, an old nostalgia as he recalled his mother's fondness for baking and all the happy moments they'd shared together in the kitchen of his childhood home. Ever the spy, he pushed aside these more romantic notions and took stock of his surroundings; Ruth's home was lovely, cluttered and utterly incomprehensible, exactly as it should have been. Books were stacked with loving care on every available surface, though the carpet was threadbare and in need of replacement. The throws and pillows on the settee were mismatched in both color and design, and a small cat of indiscriminate breed was winding himself around Ruth's ankles, mewling up at her pitifully.

"Cup of tea?" she asked him, wringing her hands together there by the door, her eyes flitting nervously around the room as if wondering what he must think of it, of her.

"Tea would be very nice, thank you," he told her softly, hoping that she could hear in his voice just how pleased he was to be here, in this house with her.

Ruth nodded and led the way into her kitchen, Harry and the cat both trotting along happily in her wake. She immediately crossed to the worktop and gathered up the ruins of whatever it was she'd dropped when he knocked on the door, sweeping it up and into the bin before he had chance to see what it was; based on the sound he'd heard, Harry assumed it was a tea cup.

"I wasn't sure if you'd be hungry; there's tea, and fresh bread, and jam and honey to go with it," Ruth told him when she'd finished disposing of the latest victim of her rather adorably clumsy nature.

Harry was never one to turn down home-cooked food of any sort, and so accepted his tea and his bread and his jam with an earnest enthusiasm. Once Ruth was satisfied that she had fulfilled her duties as hostess she joined him at the table, both hands wrapped around a huge crimson mug with a chip on one side. The kitchen was tiny, and as the cottage lacked a proper dining room the small round table only added to the general feeling of claustrophobia. The windows let in the warm summer sunlight though, and that helped to allay Harry's natural distrust of enclosed spaces somewhat.

"I thought it might be best if we met here," Ruth told him. "Maren's working, and I often come back to the house in the morning to tidy up. She won't think anything of it, if I disappear for a few hours."

At those words, Harry's mind was flooded with an embarrassingly untoward series of images inspired by the thought of what he and Ruth could do alone together for _a few hours_ , but he put an end to that particular train of thought rather quickly. It was madness, he knew, to lose himself to longing for what once had been, and might never be again.

"You did well in suggesting it," he told her, thinking once again how proud he was of the smooth way Ruth had arranged this meeting. She blushed rather prettily, even at that scant praise, and Harry's heart swelled just a bit to see it. Some things never changed, he supposed; she still didn't know what to do when complimented. He made a note to endeavor to compliment her as much as possible, if only to see that blush color her delicate cheeks once more.

"How have you been, Ruth?" he asked quickly, before they became too distracted with cruder discussions of guns and money.

The question seemed to catch her unawares. Ruth's eyes flickered from her teacup up to his face, that searching, calculating look he recalled so well in her gaze. Over the years Harry had worked with some of the best and brightest intellectual minds in the course of his duties, and he had never met anyone – with the possible exception of Connie James – who possessed Ruth's uncanny natural analytical ability. More than once during his previous stay in Galway he had considered asking her to come work with him back in London; though Five had always had a preference for candidates with university degrees at that time they had been less stringent in their requirements, and he had been certain that Ruth's abilities would make up for her lack of credentials. He had never asked, however, to his great regret. How different might things have been, he wondered, if he'd brought her home with him?

"You didn't come all this way to ask me how I am," Ruth answered slowly, lowering her eyes from his face once more. There was no bitterness in her voice, only that steely practicality that had served her so well in the past, in dealing with drunks and ruffians and her acerbic stepfather. "You're here to do your job."

"That is patently untrue, Ruth." Harry's words came out a bit harsher than he'd intended; he wasn't cross, exactly, he was just so damned frustrated by the distance between them, by their inability to say what they were thinking straight out for once. This woman had once shared his every confidence, had caused him to lose his heart and his head completely, and he longed to share that closeness with her once more. The heat in his voice caused her to flinch, but he carried on, heedless. "I'm here because _you_ asked for me. I would not have returned for anyone else." He took a deep breath, trying to bring his emotions to heel. "I genuinely want to know, Ruth. How have you been?"

She sighed, trailing her fingertips absently along the rim of her mug. "I can't complain. Truly, I can't, James." This last she added no doubt to defend herself against the look of incredulity Harry could not keep from his face. He knew she wasn't telling him the truth, and he could not hide his displeasure at her obfuscation. And it stung him, just a bit, to hear her call him _James,_ though he had never told her his real name. _I shall have to rectify that, before this is done,_ he thought. He wanted nothing so much as to hear his name, his proper name, falling from her lips.

"The pub is mine, now. I don't work for anyone but myself. I have a home, and a wonderful daughter. What more could I want?" There was something in her tone, something that seemed to belie the confidence of her words, something that made him feel as if she were trying to reassure herself, and not him.

"I heard you got married," Harry prompted her, when no further details were forthcoming. Ruth primly set her mug down on the table, and then wrapped her arms around her body tightly.

In the course of his work Harry had endured more than one painfully dull seminar on the peculiarities of human behavior, the little tells displayed in a thousand different gestures across cultural and economic boundaries, and all the time he'd spent cultivating assets and guarding against betrayal had only served to drive those lessons home. Ruth had just displayed a classic gesture of self-comfort, as if she were trying to protect herself from an emotion, a memory that threatened to drown her.

"George," she said after a long moment. "He was called George. He…died. Almost three years ago."

"What happened?" The moment the words were out of his mouth Harry wanted to kick himself for being so tactless. "I'm sorry, that was thoughtless," he corrected himself quickly. "You don't have to-"

"It's all right," she assured him. "It was an accident at the shipyard. They were unloading containers, and the crane broke. George was under the container when it fell."

 _Jesus._ Harry hoped the poor man's death had been quick; he imagined that being crushed by a shipping container would not be a particularly pleasant way to die.

"Ryan Kelly came over to offer his condolences, after it happened," Ruth continued. This time, the bitterness in her voice was so thick Harry felt he could have cut it with a knife. Harry recalled Ryan Kelly quite well; he'd been a weedy little shit, pompous and constantly stirring up trouble. "He's in charge down at the harbor, now. There's not a thing happens on those docks he doesn't know about. I don't know if you remember this, but George used to be one of his mates."

Harry racked his brain, conjuring up the images of the three or four youths who had constantly been in Kelly's company during Harry's previous trip to Galway. Finally, he took a stab in the dark. "Was he the ginger one?"

Ruth smiled at him softly, her eyes misty and far away. "He was. He was a good and kind man, James. I know it doesn't seem like it, since he was always getting into trouble with Ryan, but he was. Do you remember that night you found me, when they were teasing me in the carpark?" Harry wasn't likely to forget that night any time soon, as it was the first time he'd ever held Ruth in his arms, and so had taken on almost a mythological importance in his memories. "George came to see me the next day, to apologize. He was always cleaning up Ryan's messes. You'd think, after all this time, Ryan would have been more grateful to him, but he always treated George like…like something dirty on the bottom of his shoe. At work he was forever shorting his wages and asking him to work overtime for no pay, and George just…he just accepted it. Like that was the best he could hope for, and he was all right with it. That day Ryan came here, after George died, I could have killed him. He always looks down his nose at me, always says such hateful things about our Maren."

Ruth had said all of this rather quickly but as she came to the end of her monologue her face took on a stricken expression, as if she couldn't quite believe what she'd just said. She hastily reached for her tea, hiding her face behind the enormous mug. For his part Harry took the opportunity to mull over her words; if Ryan Kelly were now in a position of authority at the harbor, it wouldn't be difficult for him to organize the off-loading of the illegal guns that John and Mulvaney were trying to trace. It sounded like time had not mellowed the man, and Harry found himself wondering if perhaps Kelly had graduated from roughhousing and loitering to more serious infractions. And George's death seemed suspicious to him, as well; what were the chances, Harry wondered, of the crane breaking at precisely the right moment? How had George come to be standing beneath it, anyway? Surely a seasoned veteran of the shipyards would know better than to just walk beneath a container mid-transport. Wouldn't he?

And what the bloody hell did Ryan Kelly have to say about Maren?

"I'm so sorry you've had this to deal with, Ruth," Harry told her earnestly, when he sensed that she had grown too uncomfortable to continue. "Ryan Kelly was always a little shit."

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her full lips. "That's what you called him, that night you rescued me." There was a wistfulness in her when she spoke, a sad little nostalgia that echoed the longing in Harry's own heart. He was fairly vibrating with the need to reach out, to wrap her hand in his own and offer her some comfort, but still he held himself back. Though in mentioning that night – twice – Ruth had acknowledged what they had shared in the past, he wasn't sure how such a gesture might be received, particularly in light of the fact that they had just been discussing her dead husband, a man of whom she had apparently been rather fond.

"I'd hardly call it a rescue," he said a bit ruefully, trying to defuse the tension between them. "I kicked the little twat from behind. He never had a chance."

Would things work out in his favor once again, Harry wondered, should he ever find himself face to face with Ryan Kelly? The years had not been kind to Harry, and he had long ago lost the lean muscle and deadly force that had helped him bull his way through his youth. No doubt Ryan Kelly had fared better, having spent the intervening decades toiling on the docks in the sun and the rain.

"Still. I was grateful for it."

 _Christ,_ but she was lovely when she looked at him like that, like she could see straight through him, could read his every thought. Now she was the one offering comfort to him, no matter how obliquely, and Harry drank it in, heartsick and stunned by her once more.

"He hasn't been giving Maren any trouble, has he?" Harry asked after a long moment, when the weight of her gaze became too much to bear and he began to worry that he might lose what little remained of his self-control. It would be so easy, he knew, to reach out for her, to pull her into this arms, to drown beneath her glory. He needed to keep his wits about him, and so he asked her the first question that came to his mind. Kelly had always had a particular grudge out for Ruth; Harry had quietly suspected that Kelly harbored some affection for Ruth that had not been reciprocated, leading him to act out boorishly. Harry had no doubt that Ruth could defend herself, having survived in this place for so long, but he worried for Maren, who was such a lovely, outgoing girl. It would be easy, he knew, for her to find herself in trouble through no fault of her own.

Ruth's expression grew positively thunderous, at that. "Not directly, no. He used to say horrible things to George about her, though. He used to say that Maren wasn't George's at all, that I'd tricked him into marrying me."

Harry's heart was hammering so loudly in his chest that he fancied even Ruth must be able to hear it. He'd been wondering about Maren from the moment he met her, and though he had originally intended to keep his peace, thinking he was better off not knowing, he could not stop himself from asking.

"And is she? George's daughter, I mean."

Ruth rose from the table abruptly, her chair scraping loudly across the floor in her haste. She gathered up the remains of their tea and carted the lot off to the sink, keeping her back firmly turned on him all the while. _Classic stalling tactic,_ Harry thought. Before Ruth could put any more distance between them he clambered to his feet as well, and crossed the kitchen to stand beside her.

"Ruth?" he asked her softly.

For a long moment she held perfectly still, her hands clutching her battered red mug so tightly he feared she might break it. There was something dangerous in the air between them, something frightening in its intensity, that moment of stillness before the thunder rolled and the sky opened up to unleash a torrent of howling wind and rain and horror. When she finally turned to him, there was such a brokenness in her eyes that it nearly stopped his heart to see it.

"I don't know," she breathed.


	10. Chapter 10

**8 February 1985**

"Mikey, any news?" Harry asked quietly.

It was nearly four in the morning, and the Friday evening crowd had long since departed. Shaw's long-suffering wife had helped him stagger off to bed, and the pub behind Harry was all in darkness. He had gathered his men on the edge of the carpark, hidden from the street by the bulk of the pub, and hidden from the pub by a large white transit van with a blown rear tire. The transit van had taken up residence in the carpark about three days after Harry had arrived, but despite Shaw's constant grumbling about it the van had not moved an inch in the intervening weeks, thanks to Shaw's inherent mistrust of the police and his general laziness.

"Nah, mate," Mikey said, taking a drag from his cigarette, despite Harry's repeated requests that he refrain from smoking when they were meeting at night and attempting to avoid detection. Mikey claimed the cigarette in his hand gave them all an excuse for standing around in the middle of the night, and while Harry had to grudgingly admit that this was true, he disliked it all the same. "They don't trust me, the Kellys. I've made some headway with the older boy, but Connor's a tough nut to crack. I've got calluses on my hands bigger than your face and naught to show for it." This last Mikey added on a bitter sigh, his Yorkshire accent thickening with each word he spoke. The lad had drawn the short straw, and been assigned to work on the docks with the Kellys. It was an operational decision; Harry bore Mikey no ill will, and had chosen him for that onerous task because of his burly build and generally gregarious nature. Mikey could also affect an Irish accent better than any of the rest of them, which made him a good candidate for befriending the Kellys, who were close-knit and wary of strangers.

Though Harry did feel some compassion for Mikey, stuck on the docks surrounded by men who hated him on principle, he did not dare show it now. He was the boss here, and he needed to act like one, so all he did was grunt, and turn to the next man in line.

"Paul?"

"Not a single sighting, boss," the young man answered promptly. Paul had been employed at Ceannt Station, keeping an eye on the trains and those who came and went. The rail station had a brand-new, state-of-the-art CCTV system, and Paul, a reedy-looking fellow of indiscriminate age, spent most of his evenings breaking into the security room on site and going through old tapes, trying to determine whether Magee had entered the city by train after the bombing. It was slow going, and Harry had serious doubts as to whether or not the CCTV search would turn up any leads; the phrase _needle in a haystack_ came to mind. Technology was no substitute for a living, breathing asset in Harry's books, and to that end Paul was also busy chatting up one of the girls who worked behind the ticket counter in hopes that perhaps she had seen something. This, too, was likely a lost cause, but Harry would not deny Paul his fun.

"Jerry?" Harry asked the final man on his team.

"Ryan Kelly's a twat, and we'd probably all be better off if I slipped a knife between his ribs."

 _Good old Jerry,_ Harry thought grimly.

Jerry was working at one of the factories in the city, and by sheer chance was on good terms with some of the lads who hung around with Ryan. It hadn't been Harry's intention to focus two of his men on the Kellys, seeing as they were running an op in a county with a population of nearly two hundred thousand; he'd simply planted a man on the docks and a man in a factory, hoping they'd rub shoulders with some unsavory characters, and the connections had drawn themselves. He was trying not to become too fixated on the idea that Connor Kelly and his sons were involved, given that he had no actual proof of this at present; it wouldn't do, to allow his personal grudge to color his professional work. Harry had experienced a few more run-ins with Ryan Kelly, and though none of it had been quite as dramatic as their first encounter it _had_ neatly demolished any chance of Harry ever drawing nearer to Connor Kelly. He'd even started avoiding the bar at the weekend, as the last thing he wanted was to end up in brawl with the man. It rankled, knowing that he'd let his affections for Ruth stymie his attempts to make contact with his mark, but he couldn't quite bring himself to regret defending her.

"I'll take that under advisement," he told Jerry drily. "Right, thanks, lads. Same time next week, unless you come up with something useful. If you do, get word to me here."

Harry shook hands with all of them and leaned up against the van, watching as one by one they disappeared into the night. Rubbing his hands together to ward off the chill, he tried to stifle his disappoint at yet another pointless de-brief. They had no new information, despite having been in town for over a month, and the pressure of Harry's personal turmoil was making his situation more precarious by the day. Each morning Ruth served him breakfast in the pub, and each morning he fell that little bit more under her spell as they chatted quietly of matters both trivial and important, as he learned more about her, about what made her tick, about how she saw the world. Ruth had a way of speaking that made her impossible to ignore, and each time he spoke with her thoughts of his wife faded further and further from his mind. Jane had never laughed at his jokes, not even out of pity, but Ruth seemed to understand him, seemed to see beyond what he said to what he meant. And for her part she also seemed to look forward to their meetings; she confessed to him quietly one morning that she had specifically requested to change her shift so that she could work in the morning, rather than the evening. Though she insisted this was because it left her evenings free for reading, Harry had seen the blush that colored her cheeks, and had drawn his own conclusions.

Finally the carpark was deserted, and Harry turned to make his way back to the pub.

He stopped short; not ten feet away from him stood Ruth, who had until that moment been hidden from sight by a small station wagon. Her eyes were wide and accusatory, and Harry's heart fluttered in his chest as fear began to take hold. How much had she heard? Could she be trusted? Oh, Christ, what if she told Shaw what she'd seen?

"Ruth?" he said softly, taking a step towards her. She retreated at once, wrapping her arms around herself and shaking her head in disbelief.

"Ruth," he said again, moving ever nearer to her. It looked to him as if she was preparing herself to run, and that had to be avoided at all costs. He had to explain things to her, quickly, had to say whatever it took to convince her to keep her peace before she blew the entire operation to pieces. Sure enough, she turned to flee the moment he reached her, but Harry was too quick for her; he reached out and caught her by the wrist. Ruth struggled against his grip, and so Harry did the only thing he could think of – he wrapped one arm around her waist, drawing her to him so that her back was flush against his chest, neatly pinning her wrists with one hand while with the other he covered her mouth.

"Ruth," he said softly, his lips brushing her ear as he spoke. "Please. It isn't what it looks like. You don't have to be afraid. Let me explain." Quite deliberately he was speaking in short, clipped sentences, trying to calm her, trying to calm himself, trying to ignore the way his heart broke, just a little, at the though of finally holding her so intimately when it was plain that all she wanted was to run as far away from him as she could. Cruel fate had given Harry what he longed for most, but the moment was poisoned by his betrayal of her. "I'm going to let you go," he said. "I want to talk to you. Will you stay, and hear me out?"

In his arms Ruth was shaking, but when he asked his question, he felt her nod in reply. Harry sighed deeply, and slowly released his grip on her. In the dim, jaundiced light from the single lamppost at the corner of the carpark he watched her, saw her turn to face him, saw the fire in her eyes, and braced himself just in time to receive her sharp slap across his cheek.

"Don't you _ever_ touch me like that again," Ruth hissed.

"I'm sorry," Harry told her at once, raising his hands as if to ward off another attack. It would appear that Ruth's rage had been satisfied by a single strike; she leaned back, away from him, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Talk," she said shortly.

"Can we at least go inside?" Harry asked her plaintively. He'd been hiding in the carpark for nearly an hour, and his extremities were starting to go numb. It occurred to him to wonder what Ruth was doing, wandering about at this hour, but he resolved not to ask her just yet. He needed to keep her sweet, and he very much did not want her to slap him again.

She shrugged in reply, and made her way back towards the pub, Harry following in her footsteps like a chastised puppy. Ruth led him inside, across the foyer and through the dining room to the bar. At her command he took a seat on one of the rickety wooden stools, while she slipped behind the bar and poured herself a small measure of whiskey. She did not offer any to Harry.

"My name is James Harrison," Harry lied. "I am not a writer; I'm a member of the British Security Services."

Ruth laughed in his face. "Pull the other one," she said, taking a sip of her whiskey.

This sort of reaction was not uncommon; most people cracked bad James Bond jokes, and got cross with him when he insisted he was telling the truth. He would need to proceed with caution, he knew, and so he bit back his own ire, and continued softly, "You remember that bombing in Brighton, a few months back? Someone tried to kill the Prime Minister?"

Ruth nodded, placing her empty glass on the bar-top and offering him an appraising sort of look. She was a clever girl, he knew, and he hoped that she could tell the difference between truth and fiction, coming from his lips.

"We have reason to believe the bomber is here, in Galway. I've been sent to find him. What you saw was me briefing my team."

Perhaps it was the earnestness in his tone, or the language that he used; whatever the cause, it seemed to him that Ruth's general air of incredulity was beginning to slip somewhat.

"Jesus," she said, turning back to the bottle behind the bar. This time she did pass him a measure of whiskey, and Harry took that as a point in his favor. "You think Connor Kelly had something to do with it?" she asked shrewdly. That, more than anything, confirmed to Harry that she had witnessed the entire briefing, or near enough as made no matter. _You're on thin ice, Pearce,_ he thought glumly.

"I don't think anything, right now. But Kelly moved here from Belfast, and he's made no secret of the fact that he has ties to republican groups there. It would be foolish to discount him."

Something strange had happened, while he'd been talking; Ruth's eyes had taken on a faraway look, and she was nervously fidgeting with her glass, picking it up and putting it back down again without taking a sip. It was Harry's job to read people, and this was a sign too big to ignore.

"Ruth?" he prompted her.

"It's just something stupid Ryan said, it probably doesn't mean anything," she answered, refusing to meet his gaze.

"If it doesn't mean anything, then it won't hurt to tell me," Harry prodded her gently. It galled him to treat her this way, to offer her kindness in exchange for information; Ruth deserved better, but Harry had a job to do.

"He keeps talking about his uncle. Ryan says he's staying with them, but no one's ever seen him, and Ryan keeps…dropping hints that he's a bigshot, back in Belfast."

In that moment Harry was so elated he could have vaulted over the bar and kissed Ruth right on the mouth. For the first time in a month he had a lead, however flimsy, and his mind nearly ran away with him right then, with plans for arranging a meeting with Ryan Kelly's mysterious uncle.

"Oh James, please tell me you aren't going to do anything stupid," she said seriously, her bright eyes shining with fear as she reached across the bar and covered his hand with her own.

"I promise," Harry told her, turning his hand over beneath her own so that he was cradling her soft, cold hand in his bigger one. "And no one need ever know you've spoken to me. I'll keep you safe, Ruth."

As he spoke her expression softened, and she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. For a long moment he stared at their fingers intertwined against the smooth grain of the bar, wishing, not for the first time, that he was younger, that he was braver, that he was the sort of man this girl could come to love. And there could be no doubt that he loved her, loved her gentle heart and her stormy eyes and the way she seemed to know him better than anyone he'd ever met. She had taken one look at him and seen past his careful spook mask, had seen the furious pounding of his heart, the feverish machinations of his mind, and reached out to stop him before he ran away with himself, drawing him back into this moment with her.

"Dance with me," he said softly. The air between them had grown still and warm, the lateness of the hour adding a layer of preternatural quiet, of limitless possibility, and Harry could no longer ignore the clamoring of his heart.

"You think I want to dance with a spy?" she asked, but the quaver in her voice belied the harshness of her words; she, too, was staring at their hands. With a great deal more confidence than he actually felt, Harry raised her hand to his lips and planted a kiss on the back of it.

"I think you want to dance with me," he answered. Carefully he rose to his feet and began to walk down the bar, keeping his hand tenderly wrapped around her own, leading her out from her shelter and onto the floor with him.

"There's no music," she murmured as he pulled her into his arms, but she offered no further protest, sliding neatly into place against him as if she'd always been there, wrapped around him.

"I can fix that," Harry told her.

He knew a thing or two about romancing women, and despite the fact that his work required a certain level of hardness in him, he could still be soft when the moment called for it. _She_ made him soft, made him recall that piece of himself he'd thought he'd forgotten, that long-buried drive for a life more simple, more gentle, more kind than the one he led. Though he knew it was madness, though he knew he had a wife and two small children waiting for him at home, Harry felt himself lost, adrift on a sea of her, drowning beneath her waves. The legend had overtaken him, in that moment, and he became what he wanted to be, a man unfettered by duty or familial obligation, a man who was at liberty to follow the whims of his heart, to lay claim to what he most desired. And so he held her, and as they began to sway together, he started to sing.

" _Tonight you're mine, completely_ ," he sang in a low voice. This was not a particular talent of his; though he could carry a tune quite well he had not often indulged himself, beyond softly murmured lullabies for his children, but it seemed the thing to do in the moment.

Beneath him he felt Ruth lift her head, and he looked down at her, returning her smile.

"Fan of the classics are you, James?" she asked him, reaching up to twine one hand around the back of his neck.

"Are you?" he replied, giving her a little twirl as they continued to dance to the rhythm of the music in their minds.

In answer Ruth's smile only grew; she ducked her head, and then began to sing in an alto so low and soft that it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

" _You give your love so sweetly_ ," she picked up where he'd left off. Harry drew her closer still, cradling her against him as she sang and they swayed together, lost in a moment of bliss, a moment of magic, threads of hope and longing twining round and round them, binding them ever closer together. " _Tonight the light of love is in your eyes, but will you love me tomorrow?"_

There was something so lovely about her, about the shine of her eyes and the softness of her skin and the warmth of her, pressed in close against him, about the faint hint of whiskey on her lips and the richness of her voice and the passion of her song, something so desperately intimate about the moment that Harry felt his resolve shatter into pieces as he looked at her, and when she stopped singing to draw a breath he could not stop himself from leaning down and brushing her lips with his own.

"Yes," he murmured.

It was madness, he knew; only minutes before he'd confessed that he was a spy, and he thought she was far too clever to allow herself to get mixed up with someone like him. In the single, rarefied instant following his rather foolish kiss Harry was convinced that she was about to pull away from him, about to gather her skirt in her hands and run like the devil for the door, but she did no such thing. She only sighed and leaned into him, using the hand cradling the back of his neck to draw her to him as their lips collided and the heat of her set him ablaze.


	11. Chapter 11

**8 February 1985**

In the end, Harry's better angels won the battle raging in his heart, and he carefully pulled away from Ruth. He could not recall a time in his life when he had ever wanted a woman so badly and yet maintained the discipline necessary to deny himself the opportunity to seek pleasure in her arms. He'd fallen into bed with Jane the same day he met her, and likewise was lost the moment he first kissed Juliet. This was different though, and he knew it; though he wanted, very much, to see just where this burgeoning longing for Ruth might lead he held himself back from her for one very simple reason: she deserved better.

Ruth was young and strong and kind and gentle, and she deserved better than a quick tumble with a man who did not even have the decency to tell her he was married to someone else. Deep in his heart he knew that he was taking advantage of her, that the heightened emotions of the moment had made Ruth bold, and she deserved to know exactly what she was getting into before things progressed any further. Harry had no intention of hurting her; he keenly felt the difference in their ages, in that moment, felt he had a responsibility, a duty to care for her, to protect her from himself. And so it was that, despite his yearning for her, despite the growing insistence of his erection straining for her through his trousers, despite the clamoring of his heart, he put an end to things between them before Ruth did something she might regret.

"James?" she asked him breathlessly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she backed away from him, clearly concerned that she had done something wrong, that he had not been pleased by her kiss. The opposite was true; Harry could not recall having ever enjoyed a kiss more. With Jane, there had been fumbling, awkward kisses, and then comfortable, domestic kisses, and then perfunctory, routine kisses, the passion slowly leaving them as the years progressed. With Juliet it was always rough and hungry, sucking and biting and fighting for control, desperately chasing towards the main event. Ruth was an altogether different sort of woman, and her kiss was an altogether different sort of kiss. Her kiss was soft, and full of wonder, and just beneath the surface there was a longing, a hope, a need to love and be loved that called to him; he'd never known before this moment what it meant, to truly wish to be joined with another, two hearts beating as one. Now he knew, though. He knew, and he hated himself, for finding such grace after the long and bloody battle that had been his life, when he was too old and too hard to embrace it.

"I'm so sorry, Ruth," he murmured. Though she had stepped out of the circle of his arms he could not bear to go another moment without touching her, and so he reached out, and gently tucked a lock of soft, dark hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of her cheek, feeling the heat of her beneath his touch and cursing himself for being a fool.

She ducked her head, but not before he saw the flash of regret, of disappointment that crossed her face. In that moment he felt he understood her, felt as if he could read her thoughts, and it occurred to him that her face reminded him strongly of the stained glass windows he used to admire in church as a boy, the light reflecting a hundred different colors all at once, painting an image of such import, such beauty, that no other medium could do it justice. There was something precious about those windows, as there was about her exquisite features, something delicate and beyond price, unrivaled by anything else he had seen before or since. Her every emotion played across her face and as he looked at her he knew that she was blaming herself, that she had wrongly assumed that she had not been good enough for him. The truth was so much harder to bear; she was everything he had ever wanted, and it was he who was undeserving.

"If you only knew _how much_ I want…" his voice trailed off, cracking just a little as he spoke the word _want_. He couldn't recall a time in his life when he had ever wanted anything quite so much, and yet, he resisted, for her sake, and for the sake of his own soul. Let him be damned for the lives he had taken, for the lies he had told, for the pain he had caused his wife and children; those things he had done knowing full well the cost of his actions. He would not be damned for this, would not add her shame and sorrow to the list of his sins.

"Then why?"

 _Christ_ but this was hard. The way she looked at him, those stormy, ocean-blue eyes shining, entreating him, begging him to tell her the truth, even as he knew that it would surely break her heart; he could hardly stand it.

"I'm married, Ruth."

He hung his head; he'd said the words, told her the truth, placed his ruined soul in her hands to do with as she wished. It was done. He had made his confession, and neatly closed the door to anything he could have had with her. For he knew her, now, had spent weeks talking with her, learning about her, sharing himself with her, navigating that dance of give and take that had so delighted him, and he knew that she would not dare stoop so low as to sleep with another woman's husband. Despite the somewhat questionable circumstances of her life and occupation Ruth had an ironclad sense of right and wrong, an unerring moral compass that Harry felt so lacking in himself.

As he spoke she sucked in her breath sharply, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, the expression in her eyes no longer dejected, but accusatory instead. Her hand twitched at her side; perhaps she was thinking of slapping him again. If she did he would not stop her; he was fairly certain he'd deserve it.

"How could you?" Her soft whisper carried with it all the recrimination he felt in his own tattered heart. "How could you…carry on, the way you have been? How could you let me…"

She did not finish her thought, but then, she did not need to. Harry knew what he had done; through all their quite conversations he had been subtly inching ever nearer to her, encouraging her to trust him, to lean on him, to share herself with him, had no doubt made her feel as if she was safe with him, as if whatever tender feelings had blossomed in her heart were matched by his own. And they _were_ ; she had taken up residence somewhere deep inside him, had become more dear to him than anyone else he had ever known – with the possible exception of his children. Whatever she felt for him he felt the same, and he had as good as lied to her. In encouraging her without telling her of his wife he had _lied,_ and it was clear that the truth had stung her deeply.

"I don't think there is a single word I could say to justify it," he told her earnestly. "I'm a long way from home. My wife…my wife is a stranger to me now. And you, you are the most…incredible-"

"Stop it," she whispered, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. " _Please,_ stop."

"Surely you know, Ruth? How lovely you are? How completely extraordinary-"

" _Stop,"_ she said again, and this time, he obeyed her. Likely he would not ever have the chance again to tell her just how worthy she was, a diamond sparkling away in a coal mine, unloved and unvalued by those around her, those people who taunted her for being different. It was those differences that had so enchanted him, and if nothing else he wanted to leave her with the knowledge that she was the best of them, that she deserved to be loved, she deserved to be cherished. Perhaps she already knew, or perhaps it would be too hard, hearing those words from the lips of a man who could not ever truly love her the way she wanted him to; whatever the reason, Ruth was not willing to listen, and Harry was not willing to hurt her unnecessarily.

 _What a night,_ he thought glumly. He felt as if he'd been through the wringer; from the failed debriefing, to his revelation about his business in Galway, to their fiery kiss, to this unbearable moment of devastation, his emotions had run riot over him, and he felt himself bruised and aching in their wake. This was not something he'd counted on, when he first came to Ireland; losing his heart and his head completely, throwing himself at the feet of some slip of a girl in a secondhand dress. He was supposed to be better than this, stronger than this. And yet, there was a part of him that missed the vulnerability, the softness Ruth inspired in him, a part of him that wished that things might be different, that he might be free to follow his heart, wherever it might lead.

"You should go," she told him, and though her voice quivered she kept her head high, refusing to give in to her tears, standing strong and firm despite everything she'd endured. She was a rose carved of steel, was Ruth, beautiful and delicate and utterly unyielding. No doubt she had suffered worse than this; she would not be torn asunder by something as mundane as man and his clumsy affections. Not for the first time Harry found himself wondering at that, wondering what her story was, wondering what secret kept her chin up and her back straight despite the loss and hardship that surrounded her. She was a mystery to him, and, given the way she was looking at him now, she was likely to remain an enigma, unknowable, a riddle he would never solve, for all the rest of his days.

"I should," he agreed, but still he lingered, soaking up the last vestiges of comfort he could draw from her presence, knowing this was likely the last time he would ever find himself alone with her.

Ruth crossed her arms over her chest, watching him with eyes hard and angry, and he gave in to her challenge, turning on his heel and retreating rather meekly, cursing himself for being a fool. He felt the weight of her gaze upon his back as he departed; even after he'd exited the dining room and made his way up the stairs to his bed he felt as if she were still there, standing in the shadows, hurt and rage radiating off her, silently asking him again _how could you?_

The truth was, it had been easy. It was so easy, to speak to her, to hold her, to kiss her, to love her. It came as naturally as breathing, and somewhere deep in his heart he feared that he would never be rid of her, that he would never stop hearing her voice in the back of his mind, quietly guiding him, urging him to be a better man. Already she had changed him; the man he'd been a month before would not have hesitated, to go to bed with a beautiful girl. It was Ruth who had inspired him to change, and if nothing else, he swore that he would do everything he could to become the sort of man who deserved her. He might never have her, might never hold her, might never see her smile softly at him again, but by God he would become the sort of man who would make her proud. He had no other choice.


	12. Chapter 12

**16 July 2006**

 _I don't know._

Harry's world shifted slightly on its axis, with those words.

 _I don't know._

He thought he understood what she had not said, thought he understood why she was looking at him like that, with tears shining in the corners of her luminous eyes, why she seemed so wretched, so lost, so forlorn. It was an unthinkable burden to bear for all those years, and as he watched her he realized, quite clearly, that she had likely never confessed this secret to another living soul. That trust she gave him freely, as she had done from the moment they first met; she had given him this piece of herself, this bit of darkness that she carried, trusting that he would cradle it in his hands, that he would not turn it into weapon meant to maim her as so many others had done. That trust was humbling, and devastating; he wasn't entirely certain he deserved it, but he would be damned if he would betray her now. He owed her too much for that.

"Ruth," he said softly, wanting nothing so much as to reach out and draw her into his arms, yet hesitating; it was one of those rare moments when stillness was called for, when the slightest movement on his part might bring them together or tear them asunder, and he felt that responsibility, too, felt the weight of it heavy on his shoulders. Her heart was a precious gift, and he would not carelessly throw it aside.

She scrubbed her cheeks with her hands, and then wiped them dry on her skirt, ducking her head and taking one deep, steadying breath, as if to banish the doubt, the fear, the self-loathing that threatened to drag her under completely.

"George came to see me, the day after you left," she told him in a quiet voice, still refusing to look at him. "He knew what Connor Kelly had done to you, and he knew that you and I were…friends. He wanted to make sure I was all right."

As she spoke she seemed to grow stronger, more confident; she turned to him and raised her chin, squared her shoulders like a boxer preparing for the final bout, beaten and bloody and almost certainly doomed, but determined to face her fate with dignity. "He was a good and kind man, James," she told him again. "He wasn't particularly brave, or particularly strong, but he was _good._ He was good, and you were gone, back home to your wife where you belonged. Maybe it was wrong of me, to take up with him so soon after you'd gone, but I didn't know what else to do. I had to live my life, James."

"You did," he agreed softly. That was not something he could ever blame her for; every time Harry had gone to bed with her, thoughts of his wife had lingered just in the back of his mind, and he knew that he was in no position to judge Ruth for whatever she had done, in order to forget him, to move on with her life.

"You'd been gone nearly two months, when I found out I was pregnant." Still she soldiered on, determined to tell her tale, a sinner begrudgingly carrying out her penance. "I'm not sure the doctor believed me, when I told him that I must have got pregnant in July. Especially once she was born." Here Ruth turned away from him completely, her hands clutching the edge of the sink for support, her eyes staring unseeing through the little window before her, as if she were looking, not at her little garden and her scrubby little trees, but into the past, seeing herself as she had been all those years before. "She was born in March; Saint Patrick's Day, actually, if you can believe it. She came early; the doctors were certain she wouldn't be born until April, based on what I told them about George and me. But she wasn't little, James. She was strong, weighed nearly nine pounds. Damn near killed me, coming out," she added wryly, still refusing to look at him.

Harry's heart constricted at those words, at the thought of Ruth in pain, in danger, at the thought that maybe it was all his bloody fault. How could he have done such a thing, left her to bleed and struggle all her own, without him there beside her, to steady her, to hold her, to guide her through? What must that have been like for her, lying to George, lying to the doctors, fearing that her very life might be forfeit, and no one would ever know the truth of her heart? There was a smaller piece of him, though, some part of his heart that he was trying valiantly to ignore, that swelled with pride at the thought that Maren might have been his, that his child had been, from the start, strong and determined and damn near as stubborn as her mother. _Stop it,_ he told himself. _It's only a dream._

It was not a dream he'd ever harbored before this moment. He had never even considered the possibility; he and Ruth for the most part had been careful, and besides, at the time he already had a wife and children, the picture of the happy nuclear family waiting for him back home in London. It had never occurred to him to wish such a fate on Ruth, to bind her to him so irrevocably, to saddle her with a constant reminder of the man who had loved her, the man who had left her. Now, though, now that he was older, now that he was wiser, now that he had lost his family and in the losing of it discovered what a precious gift it had been, he could envision this dream. This little family, he and Ruth and the child they should have had, the child they should have raised together.

"George was her father in every way that counted, James," Ruth told him softly. There was no anger in her voice, and he knew that her words were not meant to wound him, much as they did. No doubt Ruth had spent the last twenty years telling herself the same thing, that it would be cruel to deny the role that George had played in Ruth and Maren's lives. After all, George was the one who had been there for them, who had loved and supported them, not Harry. Harry had been far away, playing the game of spies and shirking his familial duties in all their many forms. No doubt this George had been every bit as _good and kind_ as Ruth said he was, and in that moment, Harry couldn't help but think that such words would never be used to describe himself.

"He changed her nappies, and sang to her when she wouldn't sleep. He was the one who kicked the football with her, and told her funny stories to make her laugh." With each word she spoke Harry felt his heart break that little bit more. _It should have been me,_ he thought, and in his mind he saw not just Maren, but Catherine and Graham as well, saw all the moments when he should have been there for his children, but had chosen instead to wall himself off from them, crawling off to Thames House to tilt at windmills in the darkness rather than spending time with his children when they needed him. "Maren loved him, James."

"And you?" he asked her before he could stop himself. "Did you love him?"

Ruth sucked in her breath sharply, those sparkling, diamond-bright tears making a reappearance as she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. The question was unkind, he knew; he had no right to ask this of her, to demand that she bare her soul to him when she had already given him so much, and he had offered her so little in return. It was cruel, he knew, to dig his fingers into her wounds, to poke and prod at her for the sake of his own reassurance. _No good can come of this,_ he thought, even as it occurred to him how lovely she was, even as he recalled the warmth of her, the heat of her kiss, even as he longed to experience it again. There was a part of him that needed to know, however, needed to know whether she had thought of him, as he had of her, whether the time they'd spent together had been no more than a moment of madness she regretted, or if it was a pleasant memory, a piece of hope to cling to, as it had become for him. Duty had given him an excuse to see her, but it was love that compelled him to come, to stand beside her in her kitchen and ask, one final time, for the truth.

"I have no idea how to answer that question, or why I ever would," she said, a bit of steel creeping back into her voice now. Harry remembered that, too, remembered that well of strength she kept hidden deep in her heart, that hardness that could come to the fore when she was afraid. Ruth had spent a lifetime protecting herself, sheltering herself from the dangers of the world, and behind that delicate face there lurked the heart of a fighter, the heart of a woman who knew her worth, who stood her ground. There were so many layers to her, so many different pieces all working in tandem to create the glory and the tragedy of her, and though Harry had learned so much about her, he knew that she was an enigma he could never hope to understand completely. Perhaps that was part of her allure; she was every bit as complex, every bit as difficult as he was himself.

"I shouldn't have asked," he conceded, taking a conciliatory step away from her, hoping that if he gave her the space she so dearly longed for, she might turn to him with fondness in her eyes once more. It was a fool's hope, but Harry had always been a fool when it came to love. _Love, love, careless love._

"Why did you, then?" Ruth demanded quietly. As was so often the case, she did not need to shout or bluster or raise her voice in any way; the softness of her was too compelling to be ignored. But how could he possibly answer such a question? How could he possibly tell her, this woman he had known so briefly, from whom he been so long estranged, this woman he had placed upon a pedestal of his own making, this woman who had come to mean so much to him, this woman he feared he did not truly know at all? What could he say to her, and how would she respond if she knew the truth? Would she be horrified, to think that he had been fixated on her for so long, or would she be relieved, to know that she was not the only one who had nursed a quiet, desperate affection in her heart for the last two decades? There was a moment, a single instant when they balanced together on the edge of a knife, when it seemed to Harry that calamity might befall them at any moment, and he had no inkling of which way he should go. Truth, lies, love, duty; it was too much for one man to bear.

"You didn't come here for this," she said with a sigh, running her fingers through her hair. It seemed that Harry's earlier protests as to his motivations had not convinced her, and he felt her pulling back from him in more ways than one, as she returned her attentions to the dishes in the sink, her posture closing her off from him even as he felt a certain coldness radiating from her. The heat, the desperation, the passion of a moment before had begun to fade as she closed her heart off from him, and something deep inside Harry's chest broke free in that moment. He caught her by the arm, turning her to face him abruptly, stepping into her into space until they were so close that with each short, tense breath she took her chest brushed against his own.

"This is _exactly_ why I came, Ruth," he told her, feeling that spark of need reigniting between them as she stared up at him, her full lips parted and her eyes shimmering up at him, frightened and hurt and yearning all at once.

There was nothing else for it, then; he did not know when next he might have such a chance, to see her, to touch her, to feel, even for a moment, that she belonged to him and him alone, that there was no one else in the world save for her, save for him, save for them together. Outside that room was a world full of people, demanding her time, her smile, her grace, but there in that kitchen she was his Ruth again, that girl he had known, the girl he had loved, the one woman whose name had been tattooed on his heart long ago when he was young and afraid of nothing save for losing her. There was no stopping him now, nothing standing in his way, and he bowed his head to kiss her, all unthinking. Though she gasped, when his lips first brushed hers, she did not draw away; instead she fisted her hands in his shirt and pulled him ever closer, the same hunger, the same need that drove him spurring her on until they were wrapped so tightly around one another that he lost all sense of himself. There was only Ruth, her lips, her tongue, her needy sighs, and Harry reveled in the joy and the freedom and the terror of it all.


	13. Chapter 13

**16 July 2006**

"Stop," Ruth breathed, the whispered plea slipping past her lips to brush against his own, drawing him back into the moment and causing his heart to plummet in his chest. Though he did as she asked and ceased his ravishing of her at once, he could not pull away from her entirely, could not lose this closeness he'd only recently rediscovered with her. For a long moment he simply held her, his arms slung low around her waist, her forehead resting against his shoulder, her hands fisted in the back of his shirt, each of them holding their breath, waiting for the moment when she would speak again, and tear them both asunder. There was nothing Harry wanted less; in the aftermath of her confession, the only thing that mattered to him was her, was this, was showing her, in whatever clumsy way he could, that she still owned him, heart and soul, that there had never been another woman who had moved him as she did.

Still, though, he felt he could understand in a way why she was trying to put a stop to things between them. So much had changed, in the years since they had last seen one another, and as easy as it had been to give himself over to his longing for her, Harry knew that the time had changed them both. The inexorable slogging march of time had destroyed his relationship with Jane, and there was no reason to think that his connection to Ruth would fare much better. Did he know this woman, truly, not the girl she had been but the woman she had become? Did she know _him_? Would she even want to know him, he wondered, once he told her the truth of all the dark deeds that haunted his past? In that moment he felt only guilt, for pushing her so, for forcing her into this position without telling her the truth, every bit of it. He was suddenly, starkly reminded of the first time he'd kissed her, and the way he'd pulled himself back from the brink, thinking that she deserved to know of his wife, deserved the opportunity to run from him before he stained her skin with the blood he carried on his hands. Surely she deserved that same chance now.

"I can't do this, James," she told him softly, as she finally made a move to extricate herself from his arms. She stepped back from him, her eyes shining but certain as she once more crossed her arms over her chest, closing herself off from him. "We can't just pick up where we left off twenty years ago."

 _Why not?_ Harry wondered, though he did not dare speak such a thought aloud. It would only anger her, would only hurt her, would only cause her more pain than he already had done. Besides, he knew the answer, he had no need to ask.

"I meant what I said. I don't truly know if Maren is yours, and even if she is, you can't just waltz through the door and pretend to be her father. It isn't right, James. It isn't _fair._ "

"None of this is bloody fair," Harry sighed, running his fingers over his thinning hair, cursing himself for the thousandth time. If only he'd brought Ruth back to England with him, if only he'd stayed in Galway, if only he'd come back to her as soon as his divorce came through, the way he'd always promised himself he would. If only he had been braver. _If only, if only._

"Right, because it's been so hard for _you."_ Anger colored Ruth's cheeks, made her bold, and each of her words hit their intended target, piercing Harry's heart despite the fact that he knew she was right. "You were off in London, doing God only knows what, while I've been here, all this time. It was me looked after her, kept her safe, kept her fed. It doesn't matter who her father is, James. I'm her _mother._ All the time, not just when it's convenient or I'm feeling sorry for myself."

In an attempt to regain his bearings – and to keep himself from saying something he might regret – Harry retreated back to the table, plopping down in a chair and scrubbing his face with his hands. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that she was right, and he had been foolish – cruel, even – to approach her the way he had. Ruth had always been skittish and self-conscious, and Harry's kiss, so close on the heels of her declaration, might well have seemed more like him marking his territory rather than a confession of feeling, of desire. He would need to, as always, tread carefully with her.

"I'm sorry," he told her earnestly.

Ruth sighed, and her shoulders drooped in a weary sort of resignation. "This isn't why I asked you to come," she said in a tired little voice.

Somehow, Ruth kept coming back to that, kept reminding him that he was here at her invitation, despite her insistence that all they had between them now was duty. Harry couldn't quite understand it; why _had_ she asked for him, then? Surely she must have known that he would take one look at her daughter, and begin to ask questions. Surely she had known that they would find themselves alone, and inevitably the spark that had reduced them to ashes in the past would ignite once more. As he watched her he couldn't help but think that perhaps, no matter what she said, no matter what she told herself, this was _precisely_ why she had asked for him.

It was Harry's turn to sigh. "Tell me why I'm here, Ruth," he said.

Having something else to focus on, something less devastating than their personal relationship, seemed to bolster Ruth's confidence; she resumed her post by the sink, furiously scrubbing the dishes while she spoke.

"Ryan Kelly," she said.

"Little shit," Harry grumbled.

Though he could not see her face, he fancied he could hear her smile from across the room.

"He runs the docks now. I know your boys are looking for gun smugglers, and if there's any contraband coming through that harbor, you can bet Ryan has his hand in it. Not only that…"

Her voice trailed off, and her hands stilled, her shoulders hunched as her confidence deserted her all at once. Though Harry would not dare to presume he knew what was going through her mind, he recalled quite clearly what she'd told him, about the nature of her husband's death, and he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps that was where they'd been heading all along. Regardless of Ruth's feelings about the man, it was clear his death had unsettled her, and Ryan Kelly unsettled her all the more. Already the wheels were turning in Harry's mind, and he knew in that moment that it would not be enough to simply put an end to the gun running operation. He would have justice for Ruth, whatever it took.

"Before he…died, George told me he'd seen something. Something that scared him." Her voice was small and unsteady, when she spoke, and once more Harry was fighting the urge to go to her, to wrap his arms around her, to shelter her from the darkness of the world she inhabited. Still, though, he refrained, remembering the admonition she'd delivered not five minutes prior, remembering that at the end of all of this he would once more return to London, and Ruth would still have to live with these people, remembering that he was, yet again, asking her to sacrifice her life and her safety in the name of his cause. _None of this is bloody fair,_ he thought grimly.

"He wouldn't say what. Just that Ryan had gotten himself in over his head, and George was worried. A few days later, George was gone. It wasn't an accident, James." She turned to him, her hands still clutching the edge of the sink, her eyes wide and fearful, begging him for help. "George worked on those docks all his life. He never would have done something so foolish. People used to laugh at him, say he was thick, but…I _knew_ him, James. He was a very practical man, and he knew better. But what could I do? Ryan Kelly has money, and he has power, and people are afraid of him. I couldn't tell anyone without putting us at risk, Maren and me. I need your help. You're the only one I can trust with this."

Finally, Harry rose to his feet. Perhaps they weren't meant to be together, perhaps he would never feel the heat of her, the softness of her, the rapture of her moving beneath him once again, but she needed him, and he would be there for her, in whatever way he could. He would do this one thing for her, would bring her peace, would bring her comfort, and then he could return to his quiet, dismal life, knowing that if she did not love him, at least she was safe.

"If this is true," Harry began. Ruth opened her mouth to protest, clearly outraged at the implication that he did not believe her, so Harry raised his hand, asking for quiet. "If Ryan is responsible for what happened to George, I promise you, Ruth, he will answer for it."

She nodded, apparently satisfied. The silence stretched between them, thick and taut and dripping with all the words Harry wanted to say, but couldn't. He wanted to take her in his arms and dance with her again. He wanted to make her laugh, make her smile, wanted to tell her his real name, wanted to confess his sins and be blessed by her gentle hands. He wanted so much he was full to bursting with his need of her, but still, he held himself back. What he wanted and what Ruth needed were not the same thing, and he knew it.

"I used to wonder," she told him a soft voice, "what I would say if I ever saw you again. I never imagined it would be like this, James."

"Nor did I," he answered her gently.

She looked up at him sharply, a question in her eyes, and though he could almost hear the words she longed to say, their moment of quiet was shattered by the clattering of the back door.

"Mam?" Maren's voice, high and sharp, echoed through the house. Ruth's eyes went wide with horror; there was no way for Harry to make his escape from the little kitchen without stepping into Maren's view, and he knew there was no way for Ruth to distract her, to keep her from realizing what was afoot. They had only an instant to retreat to a safe distance, taking up their positions at opposite ends of the worktop, before Maren came bustling into view.

"Oh hello," she said, coming to a rather sudden stop there in the doorway, her whole body frozen in a manner that would have been comical, if Harry's heart had not just been seared by the fear on Ruth's face. _Would it truly be so terrible,_ he asked himself, _if she learned the truth?_ The problem was, he had no way to answer that question, save for the quiet voice deep in the corner of his soul that whispered _yes_ , _nothing could wound her more completely than learning you might be her father._

"Mr. Pearson's come with the meat delivery and he wanted to speak to you before he goes," Maren said hesitantly after what was perhaps the most uncomfortable thirty seconds of Harry's life to date.

"Right. I'll go see him now," Ruth said. She was twisting her hands together, reminding Harry of nothing so much as a startled rabbit caught in the stare of some massive predator. For his part, Harry had been struck dumb by Maren's arrival, all of his smooth spycraft deserting him at once as he stared at that girl, paralyzed by the thought that she might be his flesh and blood. Ruth started to flee, but stopped abruptly when she realized Harry wasn't moving, that he was standing stock-still and staring at the girl in the doorway. Ruth turned to look at him, incredulity splashed across her face, and he sprang back to himself, murmuring his apologies and following behind her as she led the way out. Maren took up the rear, completing their merry little band, and Harry fancied he could feel her eyes lingering upon his back, questioning, appraising, accusing, with every step he took.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thank you all for your patience! We are moved and all settled in, and updates should return to the usual every-other-day(ish) pace.**

* * *

 **14 February 1985**

It was a dreary Thursday night, damp and bitter cold; Harry stood on the pavement, stomping his feet and wondering for perhaps the thousandth time what the bloody hell he was doing, freezing to death in Ireland when he could have been in his lovely warm home back in London. Or perhaps not so lovely; for the last few years Jane had been nearly as chilly and inviting as an Irish winter, and he'd found himself spending less and less time at home. It would not be entirely fair to blame his absence solely on his wife's frosty nature; losing Bill had changed him, in ways he was loath to consider. Harry had always assumed responsibility for every facet of whatever operation he was actively involved in, but since that terrible day when he'd stared down at the blackened remains of his dearest friend, he'd become like a man possessed. For the rest of his life, he would never forget that moment, that instant when he'd been faced with a choice, and determined that the operation was more valuable than Bill. That was a choice that haunted him, that dogged his every step, that made him more determined than ever to work to ensure that he would never have to make such a choice again. Galway was a long way from Belfast, but Northern Ireland cast a long shadow.

On this dreary Thursday night Harry was waiting at the end of a long and winding lane, standing lookout while Mikey performed a bit of judicious breaking-and-entering at the Kelly home. Connor – the _pater familias,_ as Harry's favorite tutor would have called him – was busy getting pissed at Shaw's pub. Ryan and one of his brothers were out causing mischief with the horde of young men who seemed to follow them wherever they went like a motley crew of drunken, destructive ducklings, and the mother and eldest brother were away visiting a family member who had fallen ill. Harry knew there would not be a better opportunity to have a bit of a poke around the home, and given that Mikey was considerably younger and sprightlier Harry had agreed to remain behind while his compatriot went rooting through the house. Left to his own devices Harry paced the pavement, his eyes trained on the house even as he endeavored to appear nonchalant.

Ruth had warned him that there might be yet another Kelly family member hiding out in the house, and he had passed this intelligence along to Mikey before sending him off to do his snooping. Though Harry did not reveal his source, he knew that soon he might well have no other choice; even if she were only known by a codename, Ruth would need to be added to the operation's records as an asset. That thought galled him; she was more than an _asset_ , more than just another woman wooed in the name of mining her for information before casting her aside. Harry had possessed no intentions of turning Ruth to his side when he first began talking to her, and he intended to honor his promise to protect her. If he could do nothing else for her, he meant to do that.

The minutes passed, each seeming longer than the last. Harry's eyes roved constantly, searching the house, the lane, the shrubbery, his ears straining and his whole body tense and tight as he waited, wondering how long their brief reprieve would last, wondering if Mikey had stumbled across Ryan Kelly's uncle, or if by some miracle Patrick Magee was hiding in that darkened house, if his exile in Ireland might come to a successful conclusion this very night.

Part of him wanted, very much, to put an end to this operation and return home to London, to his cold wife and his warm bed. There was another part of him, however, a still, soft voice that whispered through the chambers of his heart, telling him softly that there was something about this city, about the narrow, winding streets, about the smell of the sea, about a certain dark-haired, blue-eyed girl, that he was not yet prepared to leave behind just yet. Somehow along the way Harry's goals for this operation had changed; he would no longer be content with bringing the Brighton bomber to justice. He was beginning to fear that he would not know peace until he had patched up his relationship with Ruth. Over the last week or so, she had taken Bill's place in his dreams, her blue eyes flashing at him accusatorily, her pain, her anger palpable, even in his sleep. _How could you, Harry?_ she asked him in his dreams.

 _How could you?_

 _I wanted to._

That answer would not be enough for Ruth, he knew. She needed comfort, needed reassurance, needed someone who could love her, not just for a few days but for years, someone who could brighten the darkness that surrounded her, someone who could offer her comfort, heal her hurts. Harry could do none of those things; though he loved her, though he longed for her, he feared he was too far gone down this violent road of spying and lying to ever offer her – or indeed any woman – the kind of support and affection she deserved. Without a doubt, he knew he could take her in his arms, could drown in the softness of her touch, could burn her alive with ecstasy, but she needed _more_ , and he had no more to give. No more than a shattered heart, no more than empty promises, no more than a ghost of hope, a memory of love.

And yet, even knowing this, if she had only smiled at him, if she had only reached for him, he would have taken her, and gladly. He would willing seek whatever comfort he could find, buried between her thighs, and he would leave her, knowing how unkind it was, ignoring the clamoring of his own better angels. For her part Ruth had remained aloof from him, trading shifts with another of the young women who worked for Shaw so that Harry no longer saw her when he took his breakfast in the mornings. Ruth knew that Harry avoided the dining room in the evenings out of a fervent desire to keep from further antagonizing Ryan Kelly, and so with that one act she had deftly removed herself from Harry's orbit. Since that terrible evening when he had finally tasted the bliss of her kiss and broken every dream he carried in his heart for them in the process, he had seen her on only one or two occasions; Ruth had to venture upstairs to clean the rooms, but though they had passed in the corridors any attempt on Harry's part to draw her out had been met by a wall of sullen silence.

 _That girl has more sense than you do,_ he told himself glumly as he checked his watch. Mickey had been in the house for nearly half an hour, and the pub would be closing down any minute. They needed to get out, and soon, but short of actually walking into the house Harry had no way of communicating with Mikey. They had worked out a signal, should someone come along; there was a brick on the ground by Harry's feet, and a small silver sedan close at hand. In the event they were discovered, Harry would shatter the car's window and cause as much of a ruckus as he could. It was not a particularly elegant plan, but it was the best they could do under such short notice. Harry hoped it wouldn't come to that, but if Mikey didn't come out – and soon – he might be forced to take drastic action. They couldn't risk the Kellys coming home to find them hanging about; their position in the community was tenuous enough as it was.

Even as he thought this, movement down the lane caught his eye, and the next thing he knew Mikey was running out of the house at a sprint. From this distance Harry could not see what had caused his colleague's sudden departure, but as he watched Mikey turn and begin racing down the lane in the opposite direction, he realized he had to get out of the area, and quickly. This, too, was part of their plan; they had agreed beforehand that if the operation went tits up, Mikey would run as far and as fast he could away from him, in the hopes that Harry's cover would not be blown. Watching Mikey's retreating form sent a chill down Harry's spine, but he forced himself to move slowly, turning casually and taking deep breaths as he set one foot in front of the other. He could hear shouting coming from the vicinity of the Kelly house; it was difficult to be certain, at this distance, but he thought he might have heard Ryan's voice through the din. Still he walked, his hands thrust in his pockets, trying to silence the pounding of his heart in his ears.

And then the pounding changed; it was no longer his heart he heard, thundering just on the edges of his consciousness. It was footfalls. Someone was following him, at speed. For a single instant he deliberated with himself, wondering whether he ought to continue moving slowly and feign ignorance should he be caught, or if he ought to take off running as fast as he could. Both options carried a great risk. There was every possibility he would not be able to talk himself out of trouble, and if he were recognized then any chance he might have had of getting to the bottom of things in Galway would be blown. Alternatively, there was every possibility he'd been identified already, and running would only cement his guilt in the eyes of his pursuers.

In the end survival instinct won out over tradecraft, and Harry shifted from a slow walk into a sprint, his feet slapping heavily on the wet pavement. Behind him he heard shouts of chagrin, but the years he'd spent in service to his country had built up his endurance, and he knew he had strength enough to outrun Ryan and his goons. That did nothing to calm the fear that gripped him, however; the outcome of the operation – and Harry's professional reputation – depended entirely on him escaping unseen.

The hour was late, and the streets mostly in darkness, though the occasional street lamp gave him pause, and he avoided them as much as he could while he ran, determined to keep out of those damning pools of orange light, to keep his face hidden and keep his hopes alive. The sounds of pursuit behind him faded, and he relaxed, just a fraction, as he turned and bolted through a neatly kept garden. That momentary lapse of caution was his downfall; even as he exulted at the thought that he had come through this brush with disaster unscathed, something came hurtling through the air behind him and collided with his side, sending him sprawling onto the damp grass as pain lanced through him. It was a sharp, shocking pain, a pain that stole the breath from his lungs, a pain that was familiar in its own horrifying way; he was certain one of his ribs at least had broken on impact, having had the dubious honor of breaking several of them in the past. One of his dogged pursuers had apparently picked up his trusty brick when he'd abandoned it on the pavement, and hurled it at him in an attempt to halt his progress.

Though he could not breathe, though the pain was so great that his eyes were watering, clouding his vision, though his skin was torn and bleeding, Harry forced himself upright. He had only seconds to attempt to escape; he did not doubt that if he were captured now, he'd face far worse than a broken rib. That brick was lying in the grass, uncomfortably close to his head. He could think of no more undignified end than to be brained by a brick on a Galway sidestreet, and so he rallied, pressing his hand hard to his wounded chest and limping away as fast as his battered body would let him. His left knee had borne the brunt of his fall, and it protested viciously with painful step he took, but still he continued; he had no other choice.

Harry took a circuitous route, trying to throw them off, trying not lead them directly to the pub, despite the longing he felt to seek shelter within the comforting familiarity of its walls. No doubt Ryan and his goons were better acquainted with the city than he, but for the last several weeks Harry had studied map after map of Galway, had walked the pavement, had traversed every square inch of town, and he could only hope that his industrious efforts would stand him in good stead. In the darkness, blanketed by the fog of winter and a haze of pain, he lost track of his turnings, mindful as ever of the sounds of the young men chasing after him. Eventually he came bursting out onto Newcastle Road, and was very nearly mowed over by a transit van before he came to his senses. This road was brightly lit, and for a moment he took stock of his surroundings, gingerly feeling the edges of the wound on his side, wincing sharply with each press of his fingertips.

 _I'm getting to old for this,_ he thought as he gently prodded his side, trying to determine the extent of the damage. There was no sign of Ryan Kelly, however, and Harry decided he'd best be thankful for small mercies. He made his way back to Shaw's pub, keeping a constant look out for trouble over his shoulder, finding none.

The front entry to the pub was locked when he arrived, as he knew it would be, and so he used his key to access the small side door that opened into the carpark. As he came stumbling into the foyer, wiping the rain and sweat from his brow, he collided with another warm body, unable to stop the groan of pain that left his lips at the impact. He staggered, his knee very nearly giving way beneath him as the strain of his flight finally hit home, and his body decided enough was enough.

"James?"

He looked down, and found himself staring into Ruth's glorious blue eyes. The moment he'd run into her he had reached out on instinct, his arm snaking around her waist to steady them both, and he was so very surprised, so very exhausted from his mad dash across the city, so discombobulated by the whole bloody business that he found himself smiling rather manically at her, relieved as he was to see her lovely face and not the wretched countenance of yet another enemy.

It would seem their sudden impact had thrown Ruth off-kilter as well; she made no move to brush him off. Instead she simply stood, cradled in the circle of his arms, staring up at his flushed cheeks, his heaving chest, with an expression on her face that looked so very much like longing that Harry nearly gave in and kissed her right then. They stood together, breathing the same air, each silently asking themselves the same questions, each unable to answer them, the pub around them eerily still in the darkness of the night.

Perhaps if Harry's restraint had crumbled, she might have welcomed his kiss. Perhaps if he had drawn her closer she would have allowed it, would have opened herself up to him regardless of his betrayal, regardless of her own sure moral compass, regardless of his wife. Harry would never know, for he took a deep breath, preparing himself to speak to her, and released it with a sound that most closely resembled a whimper as the pain lanced through his chest. He sagged against her, and Ruth reflexively reached up to support him, flinching when her hand came into contact with the warm blood soaking his side.

"James?" she asked again, her voice shrill with fear. "What's happened?"

"I'm fine," he told her gruffly, though he knew he was nothing of the sort.

"Like hell you are," she told him. Harry managed a rueful smile at that; how very Ruth, to see straight through his bluster to the heart of the matter, to see the pain he tried so very hard to hide.

"Come on, let me have a look at you," she said, and before he could protest she had turned, nestling herself beneath the crook of his arm so that he could lean upon her slender shoulders. Ruth led him back to the dining room, her steps steady and certain, and Harry did not question it, did not ask what sort of aid she could offer, this slip of a girl with the saddest eyes he'd ever seen, what comfort she could possibly hope to give to a battle-hardened old spook like him. There was no sense in asking; her presence was a balm to his weary soul, and he knew it.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: This chapter is M-rated.**

* * *

 **14 February 1985**

Given the lateness of the hour, the dining room was mercifully deserted; the pub had shut down for the evening and it would appear that Ruth had once more been left to close up shop on her own, for which Harry was duly grateful. He had no idea how he could possibly explain his current sorry, limping state should anyone else stumble across him - it would be hard enough trying to explain things to Ruth. Somehow he didn't think that he could justify his late night excursion to her; likely breaking and entering was right up there with adultery, on the list of transgressions of which she disapproved.

She escorted him to a table just inside the doorway, and with her help he eased himself down into a chair, groaning slightly as the change in position jostled his aching ribs. At the sound of his discomfort Ruth shot him a worried glance.

"Stay here," she told him softly. "I'll be right back."

Bemused, Harry watched as she departed, wondering what on earth was going through her mind. How must he look, he wondered, with his shirt torn and bloody, his trousers stained from his tumble in the grass, his broad frame limping with every step he took? Once again, he found himself asking how he could have ever entertained the notion of starting up a relationship with a girl like Ruth, a quiet, bookish, stubborn girl who knew nothing of the world of swirling shadows which he inhabited. This would not be the first time Harry would have his hurts tended to in the empty dining room of a seedy pub, if indeed Ruth intended to help him, and had not gone to fetch her stepfather.

That thought brought him up short; surely she wouldn't be so foolish, so cruel, as to sound the alarm and draw attention to the battered Englishman convalescing at one of Shaw's tables. Ruth was a clever girl, and she had a knack for reading people, for hearing the words they refused to say, and Shaw's mistrust of Harry was hardly a secret. Though he had not had an opportunity to revisit the topic with her, Harry was fairly certain that he had impressed upon her the seriousness of his mission, and he was fairly certain that Ruth was the sort of girl who would understand the necessity of keeping his movements below the radar. At least, he hoped she was.

All his fears were put to rest when Ruth returned; she was carrying a number of items beneath her arm, items which she spread out upon the table before him. A bit of clean water, a few rags, a long gauze bandage wrapped in a roll, and a handful of plasters. Harry smiled to see it, to see this evidence that not only had Ruth not betrayed him, she planned to help him as well, regardless of his having established himself as an untrustworthy rogue who went around kissing pretty girls whenever the opportunity presented itself.

"I suppose there's no point in me asking what you've gotten yourself into," she said wryly.

And because she had been so kind to him, not just tonight but on every night since they'd first met, because she seemed to understand him without requiring an explanation, because she had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, because her lips were soft and full and dangerously close to his own when she leaned over him like this, Harry ignored the counsel of his spy's conscience and told her the truth.

"Ryan Kelly," he said, watching her closely.

Ruth blanched at the name, her face visibly paling in the dim lights of the empty pub.

"I told you to stay away from him," she murmured. "You'll need to take off your shirt," she added, biting her lip in a captivatingly innocent sort of way.

Harry nodded, and for a moment he was silent as he unfastened his buttons, careful not to jostle himself around too much in the process. When it came to actually removing his shirt he hesitated, partly because he was unfathomably nervous at the prospect of sitting half-naked in front of a girl he longed for so deeply, and partly because he was certain that the movement necessary would cause him more pain that he was willing to handle at present.

"Here," Ruth said, reaching across to gather the edges of his unbuttoned shirt in her hands. "Let me help."

How could it be, Harry wondered, that despite having known each other for less than six weeks she could already his mind, could already glance at his face and see everything his years of training had taught him to hide? Jane often complained that she had no idea what he was thinking, that she never knew what he wanted, what he dreamed of, and yet Ruth seemed to have no such troubles. It was intoxicating, that sense of knowing and being known, the vulnerability that came with the acute awareness that there was nothing he could conceal from her. What would it be like, he wondered, to trust someone so completely, to give himself over to her, to let her in? The touch of her hand was tender and sure, and he was certain that his heart would be safe, cradled between her slender fingers. WIth infinite care she eased the shirt from his shoulders, helping him so that he did not have to bend or twist or stretch in any way, and then the deed was done, and he was sat before her with the full history of his life on display for her scrutiny.

Ruth did not disappoint; she took a moment, as she folded his ruined shirt and set it to the side, to gaze upon his chest. There was an unspoken question in her eyes, as she took in the myriad of scars that scored his skin, so eloquently speaking of the pain he had suffered over the years. Knives, bullets, even simple fists had struck him, cut him, wounded him, each mark a reminder of a specific moment of horror to be recalled in an instant each time he looked in the mirror. Belfast, Paris, Berlin, Baghdad; his skin was a map, for those who knew how to read it. Maybe one day, when things between them were less raw, when he had regained control of himself and she had forgiven him his lapse in judgment, he could explain it to her. Could sit quietly in some out of the way place and point to each mark, telling her how it had come to be there, what it had meant to him. For just a moment he imagined it, imagined her fingers trailing across his skin, imagined how her eyes would shine, when he spoke of his pain and the sacrifices he had made in the line of duty. Only for a moment, though; now was not the time, and he knew it.

"Ryan Kelly?" she prompted him, delicately soaking one of the rags in the water before turning her attention to his wound. Harry draped his arm across the back of his chair to allow her better access, tilting his head back and closing his eyes against the coming pain.

"You never actually told me to stay away from him," he said, trying not flinch when the rag made contact with his mangled skin. "You told me to be careful."

"And you always do as you're told, do you?" she fired back.

"Sometimes," he answered, cracking one of his eyes open to watch her as she cleaned the blood from his side. For his cheekiness he was rewarded with a rueful little smile, and he once more closed his eyes, the vision of her delicate face lingering, shining in the resultant darkness.

"The short version is this; I might have been near the Kelly house, this evening, and someone may have come home from the pub and found me there, and chased me through the streets like a dog, and chucked a brick at me for good measure."

"Oh, James," she sighed dejectedly. There was a world of meaning in that sigh, a warning, a plea, a sympathy that spoke of a level of concern he had not previously dared to hope that she harbored for him. Somewhere deep in his tired heart hope flamed to life once more. _What sort of man am I_ , he wondered, _that I should hope for such a thing?_ What did it say about him, that he should ache so desperately for a woman who was not his wife, for a girl who was much too young and much too lovely to waste her time on a devious bastard like himself? And yet he did ache for her, did lay awake at night thinking of her, wondering how different his life might have been, if he had met Ruth before he met Jane. Though he tried not think of this too often; Ruth had been about twelve years old, when he and Jane had wed. That fact was troubling in itself.

"I'm here to do a job, Ruth," he told her as kindly as he could. "Sometimes that job requires taking risks. I knew that when I signed on for it."

"Did you?" she asked him. Something in her tone gave him pause, and he opened his eyes to find her staring once more at his chest. "Did you know that it would be like this?" As she spoke she reached out and traced the outline of the scar that curved around his left pectoral, a gift from an IRA knife.

Yes, he had known that danger and pain were all part of the bargain when he signed on to work with MI-5; he'd just left the Army, and at the time he had not been afraid of injury. What he had not known, what he had not anticipated was the emotional toll his work would take, the way his very soul would seem to cry out for salvation while he continued to slog through his life, making one duplicitous choice after another, watching as every relationship that mattered to him withered and died. Oh, there had been a seminar or two, during training, about how to maintain an even keel, how to stay rooted in reality and not become lost in the legend, but all of the pandering and all of the polite suggestions that psychology worked wonders for a weary heart had not properly prepared him for this, for the onslaught of need and want and desperate yearning that filled him when he looked at her, when he imagined what it might be like to rest his head upon her slender shoulder.

And now she was touching him, the brush of her skin against his own warm and soothing, the lights of the pub making her eyes sparkle in the darkness, shifting constantly from blue to green to grey like the sea in a storm. _Christ_ , but she was lovely, and all he wanted was to reach out, to trace the line of her jaw with his fingertips, to draw her close to him, to lose himself inside the quiet shelter of her body.

After a moment Ruth seemed to come back to her senses, her hand falling away from his chest as she reached for the bandages. "Nearly finished," she told him in an unsteady whisper.

Harry nodded wearily and closed his eyes once more, determined to retain some level of restraint. He could not ask more from her than this, than her gentle care and her quiet understanding. Perhaps she had read his doubt, his fear, his need in his gaze, perhaps she felt it, too, perhaps it frightened her as it did him. He would never know; the night he'd kissed her, the night she'd spurned his advances and pulled away from him, he'd promised himself that he would not take advantage of her, that he would not press his suit. She deserved more, and he had nothing left to give her.

With an alarmingly practiced sort of skill Ruth wrapped his tender ribs, her long, dark hair tickling his shoulder as she leaned over him, the scent of her perfume filling his senses as it mingled with the stale air of the pub, creating a heady sort of fragrance that left him reeling. To have her so close, and yet so undeniably out of reach, was a delicious sort of torture, and he found himself wishing for a reprieve even as he prayed that she would never finish her task, that he could spend the rest of this miserable night within the circle of her arms.

"There," she said as she tied off the ends of the bandage. She took a step back from him, wringing her hands together; now that her task was done, she seemed to be at a loose end, uncertain as to what she ought to do next. Harry had no answer for her; he wanted to linger in this moment with her, to speak to her quietly, to listen to the soft lilting sound of her voice and be lulled into sleep, safe and secure, with her. Yet he knew he could not, and he tried to rally, tried to be the man she needed him to be, strong enough to be kind to her and yet not throw himself at her feet.

"Thank you," he replied, gingerly easing himself to his feet. She really had done a fine job; the bandage was tight, and did not slip when he moved, and the support it provided eased his pain somewhat.

"You'll want to ice it, if you can," she said. Harry rather got the sense that she was feeling as trapped in this moment as was he, that she was casting about for something innocuous, something uncomplicated to say, something to ease the tension that was growing between them with each passing second. He was keenly aware of his current state of undress, of the chill air of the pub washing over his skin, of the way her eyes kept darting from the broad plane of his chest back up to his face and then away again, as if she could not quite find a safe place to rest her gaze.

"You should go," she said. Finally, the endless roving stopped, and she was left staring down at her feet. This was unbearable to Harry; all he wanted, in that moment, was to look into her eyes, was to see her, as she saw him, was to fall headlong into whatever peace she might offer him, however doomed they might be.

"I should," he agreed.

And yet still he remained, as did she. Yet still they watched each other as two prizefighters before a bout, weighing one another, considering their opponent, casting aside their strategies and desperately trying to formulate a new plan. Ruth was staring at her shoes no longer; those glorious, damning eyes had turned to him, held him captive as desire flared in his chest, made his pulse race, made his breaths come short and unsteady. For the first time they were alone, properly alone, in the dark and quiet of the empty pub. There was no one to see, no one to hear, no one to disturb them, and within that solitude there lay a deceptively inviting sort of promise, a chance that they might be able to carve out for themselves a world of their own choosing, free from the taunts and the judgments of others, a world in which they could simply be, just the two of them, together.

"Good night, James," she said.

 _She doesn't even know my name,_ Harry thought, but before he could pull himself back from the brink Ruth took a single step towards him, and reached up to kiss him on the cheek.

For the rest of his life, Harry would wonder how different things might have been, if he had chosen another path. How his life might have changed, if he had simply told her _good night_ , and gone on his way. But he would never know, for when her lips brushed against him something deep inside his chest snapped, and he was on her in an instant.

Without conscious thought he wrapped his arms around her, and she melted against him, turning her face up to his own, lush lips begging to be kissed, and Harry was powerless to resist her. They crashed together with a stupendous force, the taste of her, the smell of her, the sound of her whimpering when he sucked her bottom lip between his teeth filling his senses, leaving him breathless and hungry. Later he would tell himself that surely this was how it felt to drown, to flail about uselessly while the sea filled him, claimed him, devoured him.

For a moment he was shocked, confronted with how small she was, the way she had to press up onto her toes to reach him, the way her hands gently cradled his neck and pulled him down towards her. Only for a moment, though, before rational thought deserted him and he was left to act on instinct alone, greedily taking every piece of her, though willingly given. Much as it confounded him, it seemed that Ruth's desire nearly matched his own, in light of the way she kissed him, the way she pressed her hips against him, forcing them ever closer together. The warmth and wet of her mouth spoke promises of delights as yet unsampled, and Harry could not contain the groan that left his lips at the thought. Through their kiss he felt her smile in that knowing, enigmatic way she had, in a way that seemed to say without words, _I see you, not as you would like to be seen, but as you are, and I want you, regardless._

Desperate for some tether, some piece of reality to cling to lest he be carried away completely, Harry turned them deftly, pressing her back against the table, and she went without prompting, no word of protest forming when he dragged his hands down the graceful curve of her spine and cupped her ass, kneading the tender flesh he found there, wondering how far this could be allowed to go. He wanted her, all of her, and he wanted her now, in this pub, in this room, on this table, propriety be damned. Such a chance might never come their way again, and he was eager to take it.

Slowly he dragged his lips away from the oasis of her mouth, following the line of her jaw, mapping the topography of the porcelain column of her throat with lips and tongue. What little remained of his honor demanded that he give her an opening, a chance to turn him away, to truly consider the ramifications of their actions, and so as he kissed her, he whispered softly, "tell me to stop."

"James," she murmured, the word leaving her lips just ahead of a breathy moan.

"Tell me to stop," he repeated, unable to form any other words as the taste of her left him ravenous for more.

"Don't stop," she answered, tangling her fingers in his blonde curls and holding him close against her skin. It was all the permission he needed; he used the hands still clutching her bottom to hoist her up and onto the table, and her thighs locked around his waist in an instant, drawing him in close as she ground her hips against his growing hardness and with every wordless gesture begged him for more.

He wove his hands between them, catching hold of her blouse and lifting it from her body, dismayed by his own daring, astonished by the confidence she showed when she reached for his belt and pulled him closer still. Somehow it didn't feel real; all of it felt like a dream, like a fantasy he'd conjured to ward off the terrors of the dark, a mirage that would shimmer and fade into nothingness should he stop and consider the sheer improbability of it for more than an instant. And so he determined that he would not think, would not try to understand, but would only feel, would only cherish the warmth of her skin and the bruising softness of her touch.

Still they kissed, unwilling to stop even to draw breath, and Harry wrapped his hands around her waist, relishing the beat of her heart, the blood thrumming through her veins. He wanted, very much, to relieve her of her skirt, and so he helped her to descend from the table. Now that she was on her feet again he was presented with a thousand divergent roads, a hundred choices he could make, a dozen different ways to take her, to make her his, to bind her to him, body and soul. Sheer lust won out, and he turned her in his arms, pulling her flush against him so that the ridge of her spine nestled along his chest. With one hand he reached up and cupped her breast through her bra, his lips dropping tender kisses against the skin just behind her ear while with the other hand he fumbled for the zip of her skirt, sending it cascading down her legs to pool at her feet. Ruth kicked it away and pressed back against him in an instant, the swell of her ass brushing temptingly against his throbbing hardness.

 _Too fast, too fast_ , he thought, but still he did not stop, could not stop. She was here in front of him, moaning and boneless in his arms, and he yearned for her with a force that was all consuming. Even the pain of his shattered ribs and his battered knee had faded into insignificance, drowned out by the riotous clamoring of his heart.

"Please," she gasped, and so Harry gave in, removing his belt and trousers himself, dropping them unceremoniously atop her discarded skirt. With trembling hands he reached out, and tugged her knickers down off her hips, his heart thundering so loudly in his chest he thought that surely she could hear it. Whatever telepathy Ruth possessed that allowed her to read his mind showed itself once more, and without prompting she leaned forward against the table, clad only in her bra, and stared back at him across her pale shoulder, her eyes huge and dark with lust, with hope, with need. That she could know him so completely seemed to be a gift beyond measure, a boon he had never dreamed of asking, and yet was so grateful to have received. He wished he could return this gift to her, wished that he could know her just the same, but in that moment he was forced to admit that he had no idea what she was thinking. Was she just lonely, just drunk on kisses and the illicit thrill of a tryst with an older, married man? Somehow he didn't think so. Somehow it seemed that she wanted _him_ , despite all the many arguments against it.

Though he was mostly working on autopilot, responding to the urgings of his desperate need of her, he had no intention of hurting her, of thrusting himself inside her with no regard for her comfort or her pleasure, and so despite the fact that he was completely naked (and she was close enough to naked as to make no matter) he took a moment to simply look at her, to drink in the curves and the lines of her, before reaching out to cradle her sex in his hand. The moment his palm brushed against her folds Ruth whimpered slightly, and dropped her head down between her shoulders in a movement of capitulation, giving herself up to him completely. He ran his fingers through her folds, finding her swollen and dripping with need of him, and he all but growled at the sensation, easing one finger and then another inside her, exulting in the heady moans of approval that left her lips as she ground down against his hand, eager for more. His fingers slipped between them with ease, and he knew instinctively that she was ready, that the time had come. He could have brought her to climax then, could have lost himself in watched her writhing beneath his hand, but the need to bury himself inside her overcame everything else. They would come together, he decided, or not at all.

Trying to be mindful of her comfort, Harry eased the tip of his cock between her folds, reveling in the sounds she made, the arch of her back, the salty taste of sweat he found when he leaned against her and kissed her shoulder. He thrust into her once, twice, three times, moving deeper and deeper each time, watching in wonder as she stretched to accommodate him, to allow him to take shelter within the warmth of her. With every move he made she responded in kind, seeming to know instinctively where he was going, what he needed from her, and so it was that he made love to her without a word, with hardly a sound save for her gentle sighs of appreciation and his own awestruck groans. She was perfect, unbridled in her pursuit of her pleasure, matching him thrust for thrust as he plunged into her harder, faster, deeper, diving beneath the waves of her, the salty, tangy scent of her, of them rippling around him.

" _Christ_ , James," she whimpered, gasping at a particularly potent thrust of his hips. It felt so wrong, to hear her call a stranger's name while he was inside her, but she felt so right that he did not dare stop long enough to correct her. He leaned over her, one hand clutching her hip, holding her fast while he thrust into her, the other snaking up around her neck, catching her chin, guiding her back so that he could kiss her while he continued to bury himself deeper, and deeper still, needing to feel her, to connect to her, in every way he possibly could.

Onward he moved, feeling his own release rushing inexorably closer; perhaps Ruth could feel it, too, could feel him throbbing there within the warmth and wet of her, could sense that the end was near. She had one hand wrapped around the edge of the table for support as he thrust her against it, hard enough to bruise the tender flesh of her hips with every powerful movement of his body, but with her free hand she reached down, and he watched, staring down over her shoulder as her fingertips dragged through her own soaking curls to find her clit, rubbing furiously until her inner walls clamped down hard and with a wail she broke around him, shuddering and trembling and undulating beneath him in ecstasy. Her delight was his downfall; at the last possible moment he wrenched himself from her, feeling as if something inside him had been torn apart at the instant of their separation, as practical as it might have been. He withdrew not a moment too soon, spilling himself across the smooth skin of her ass with a groan of bone-deep satisfaction.

Deliriously happy and utterly spent he dropped his hands to the table on either side of her, holding himself up on shaking arms while he planted kisses across the ridge of her shoulders and struggled to breathe. Perhaps it had been wrong of him, to take her hard and fast against a table, to betray the vows he'd made to his wife, the promise he'd made to himself to leave Ruth alone. Perhaps it had been wrong, but nothing in his life had ever felt quite so bloody _right_ , and he knew in that moment that he would never, could never regret it.


	16. Chapter 16

**16 July 2006**

Once Mr. Pearson and the meat delivery had been sorted Ruth took a moment to collect herself, leaning up against the wall in the back of the pub's kitchen, taking several deep breaths and trying to re-establish her equilibrium. From the moment the spook had first approached her several weeks before she had been dreading this day, had been dreading what might happen when she found herself alone with James once more. It had been in her mind to hope that she had put this all behind her, that in building a life with George she had paid penance for the sins she and James had committed in one another's arms, that she had found a way to put her past to rest. But the past had come calling; she had known somehow, when she spoke to the spook (he'd not given her his name, and she had not asked), that this would be the inevitable result, that James would come crashing into her life once more, upsetting her plans and setting her heart ablaze with need of him once more. She had known, but she had not told the spook to piss off, had not insisted on her own ignorance, had not tried, even once, to stop this train in its tracks before it struck her. Ruth was as much to blame as anyone for the mess she now found herself embroiled in, for the disaster that seemed to loom on the horizon.

For Ruth had asked for him, had set into motion the events that brought James to her doorstep once more, dreading it and desiring it in almost equal measure. There was a part of her that longed to know the truth, to know if Ryan Kelly had murdered her husband, if he were involved in something more nefarious than petty theft and mistreating his employees. That quiet, insistent voice of curiosity had gotten her into trouble more than once, and yet she had given into it, had been bowled over by it completely. At the time, she had believed that this was the only way, the only way to find the answers she sought, the only way to bring her peace after three long years of sleepless nights spent wondering what had befallen the man who'd shared her bed, her confidences, her life. If anyone could get to the bottom of this mess, she knew that James could, and so she had asked for him, and damned herself in the process.

The time had changed him, more than she'd expected; when he'd entered her pub the night before Ruth almost hadn't recognized him. He'd lost the muscular definition that had so enchanted her when she was young, and lost too the head of thick blonde curls she had so enjoyed mussing with her fingertips. His face was lined and weary, but for all those changes his eyes remained the same; his eyes were still that shade of hazel that reminded her of warm honey, and they spoke to her, called to her, drew her in as a moth to a flame. And then he'd spoken, and the way his voice had reverberated within her chest had brought a storm of memories crashing down upon her, potent and sweet and dripping with regret, and she had been so swept away by him, by the recollections of everything they'd been together that she'd found it difficult to speak at all. Somehow though she'd found her voice just long enough to ask Maren to tend him; that had been foolish, she realized now, to draw attention to her daughter, that sweet girl who wore her mother's face. Of course James had taken one look at her and begun to wonder, and when Ruth was finally forced to speak to him face-to-face all the promises she'd made to herself, about keeping the truth of Maren's paternity from him, about protecting her heart, had vanished in an instant, supplanted by the gnawing, undeniable need she felt to be known, to be seen, in the way that only James had done.

It was weakness, she thought, to allow her judgment to be so clouded by him, and she had paid for that weakness. His kiss had been sweet, even more delicious than she remembered, and it had been hard, so bloody _hard_ to turn him away. A little voice had whispered in the back of her mind, telling her that he was divorced and she was widowed and he might well be the father of her child; _what harm could there be_ , her heart had asked, _in giving in to him?_

Her rational mind had answered, had snuffed out the conflagration that threatened to consume her by reminding her that while he may no longer have been married, he was still a spy, still an Englishman, still bound to return to his home in London when he was finished with her. Though she dearly wanted to believe that she possessed the strength to hold him in her arms, to tumble into bed with him and let him go at the end of it feeling only joy and gratitude for the gift she had been given, she knew that she needed him too badly to set her feet upon that path. When she had been young and naive she had loved him with every piece of her heart, and he had taken those pieces with him when he left. Ruth had been shattered, devastated in the wake of his departure, and she had no desire to endure such agony again. Though her heart cried out for him, she had brought him here for a purpose, for vengeance, and she could not allow herself the luxury of indulging in her passion for him. They would find the answers she sought, and she would send him home, and it would be all the easier if she did not kiss him again, if she did not allow herself to wonder, even for a moment, what it might be like to be loved by him once more.

While she struggled to get her bearings the kitchen around her bustled with life; they were preparing for lunch, the lead chef bossing around his staff while the waitresses (two of Maren's friends from primary school) breezed in and out, laughing all the while. In her younger years the kitchen had been a scene of chaos, but Ruth had taken ownership of the pub a decade earlier, and she had worked hard to refine it, both in appearance and reputation. She was proud of the work she'd done here, proud of the results she'd achieved. These people looked to her for guidance, for understanding, and she offered it willingly, turning what had been hardly more than a seedy, run-down tavern into a bustling, moderately successful business. Ruth would never be wealthy; her stepfather's gambling habits and her husband's sudden death had seen to that. What she could be, however, what she had strived so hard to be, was content. And until yesterday, until James came waltzing back into her life oozing confidence and charm and that certain irresistible something that made her go weak in the knees every time he came round, she thought she had achieved that much. Now, though, now the pub seemed stifling and insignificant, and her bed seemed big and empty.

Across the kitchen Maren was staring at her; oh, she was trying to be discreet about it, ostensibly engaged in a lively chat with one of the other girls, but every time Ruth glanced her way she found her daughter eyeing her speculatively.

 _God forgive me,_ Ruth thought. Maren would have questions, she knew, about what on earth James had been doing in their home, and Ruth had no answers to give. For years her family had been her whole world; Ruth had precious few friends, and precious little time to spend with them. Her days were spent in the pub, and most of her nights, as well, and as a result, she had become isolated, seeking only peace and quiet when she was away from work. Ruth could not recall the last time she had entertained a visitor in her home, and she knew that this alone would be enough to rouse Maren's suspicions. Add to that the fact that Ruth had invited a man who was hardly more than a stranger to come share a cup of tea, and she knew that her daughter, whose curiosity so rivalled her own, would find it difficult to refrain from asking _why_. That was a question Ruth could not dare to answer, however. For all his faults George had been a good father; he had not been the cleverest man, but he had been kind, and Maren had adored him, and Ruth saw no reason to tarnish her daughter's memory of him. In the years since his death Ruth had never once entertained the notion of finding another partner for herself; oh, she had needs, as did everyone, but she fulfilled them quietly, far away from Maren's prying eyes. There was a nice man called Sean whom Ruth saw every now and again; he came into the pub on occasion, and on the nights when Maren was working late, or staying over with friends, Ruth would stay over at his, sharing a bottle of wine and the comfort that two lonely people could offer one another, and nothing more. Even this would seem like a betrayal to Maren, Ruth knew. Her daughter was headstrong, and passionate, and woefully naive in the ways of love and loss.

Eventually the moment of her interrogation arrived; Maren's friend departed and Maren herself made her way across the kitchen, moving straight towards Ruth. And though a part of her longed to turn tail and run, to flee from her daughter's questions and recriminations and that gut-wrenching instant when Maren would finally learn, to her sorrow, that her mother was only human and possessed of as many flaws as the next person she should fast, and faced the oncoming storm with her chin held high.

"Everything all right?" Maren asked her in a deceptively casual sort of voice.

As proud as Ruth was of the work she had done in revitalizing the pub, she considered raising Maren to be her life's crowning achievement. Maren was smart, and lovely, and kind, blessed with a playful, easy-going nature her mother envied. When Maren was a child all the old folks had watched the joyful, whimsical way in which she approached her life and remarked with smiles on their faces that she must have got that verve from her father. Ruth had been shy and anxious almost from the moment of her birth, and everyone knew it, but she had never known how to reply to such a statement. She couldn't very well say _oh yes, as we all know I'm reticent and terribly boring, Maren must get that exciting personality from her father. Did I mention there's every possibility George isn't her father at all, and that she may well be the bastard child of a married English spy? Not so boring now, am I?_

"I'm fine, love," Ruth answered, searching her daughter's face as she had done every day for the last twenty years, looking for some feature that might prove, once and for all, where she'd come from. As ever, though, Ruth found none; Maren was the picture of her mother, blue eyes, dark hair, sharp cheek bones, slight and not particularly tall. _James isn't terribly tall,_ Ruth thought, but in the very next instant she found herself quite overcome, thinking _but he's tall enough_ as she recalled the way he fit her, the way her head nestled just beneath his chin, the way his strong arms held her. _Stop this,_ she chided herself. _What's done is done, and no going back._

"And Mr. Harrison?" Maren prompted her after a moment. "Is he _fine_ as well?"

Ruth sighed; she couldn't help it. For three years she had wondered how Maren might respond, should Ruth ever find herself in a relationship with another man, and her daughter was so far living up to her every expectation, her tone and mannerisms revealing her displeasure at the very thought.

"We were just having a cup of tea," Ruth said, trying to keep her own voice light and untroubled. "I wanted to ask him about his book. It's quite good, you ought to read it sometime."

This was a lie, if Ruth had ever told one; the book was sentimental drivel. She had only read it once, in a fit of nostalgia, but by the end of the first paragraph it had become painfully obvious that whoever had written that book, it wasn't her James. Still, though, Ruth had read it through to the end, because she had never yet met a book she had not finished and she wasn't about to change that now, no matter how unsatisfying it was. Maren was an avid reader as well, but she did not share her mother's passion for the classics, and as such she rarely followed through on any of Ruth's suggestions for reading material.

"Right," Maren said slowly, in a tone of voice that implied she did not believe a word of what Ruth told her.

Before Ruth could formulate an adequately authoritative response Maren turned and disappeared through the doors in a twirl of dark hair and youthful irritability. Once more Ruth was left alone to her thoughts, but mercifully she found herself brooding not on James and the rubbish heap that was her personal life; she found herself thinking instead about Maren, who was so young and so uninitiated into the ways of the world. Despite being a lovely girl - and, Ruth had to admit, a bit of a flirt - Maren had not had a serious relationship with anyone as yet. There were a handful of boys who had followed her around with hearts in her eyes since they were children, but none that had earned her affections in turn. For all her worldly attitude, as regarded her mother's personal life or lack thereof, Maren was terribly inexperienced. In a way, Ruth was grateful her daughter's heart had not yet been broken, but of late she had begun to wonder when, or if, such a catastrophe might occur.

Ryan Kelly's oldest son, a strapping young lad called Connor - named for his bastard of a grandfather - had been spending more and more time of the pub recently, and each time he came to call he sought Maren out, making her smile, making her laugh, making her shine in a way that utterly terrified Ruth. She could think of no match more inappropriate for her daughter than a Kelly, and yet Maren had been doting on him; just the night before Ruth had caught Maren making doe's eyes at him on the floor of the dining room, and she'd had to fight the urge to go and catch her daughter by the ear and drag her bodily away. The lessons of the heart were the hardest to learn, and Ruth felt a fierce desire to protect her daughter from the pain that led ahead, should she continue on this path.

Nevermind that Ruth had been almost exactly the same age as Maren was now when she'd fallen into bed with a married man, and as such could hardly claim to be a paragon of good decision making. That thought was alarming, in itself; she had been so young, so desperate for the love that James offered her, and her whole life had changed as a result. Ruth could not bear the thought of Maren enduring the same. At the same time, she found herself wondering, yet again, what had been going in James's mind, that he thought himself an appropriate partner for her. He'd been a decade older, and she had worshipped him in a way, had reveled in the heady knowledge that this man, experienced and cultured as he was, wanted _her_. But what sort of man could do such a thing?

 _He's not the man you thought him to be,_ Ruth told herself, as she had done regularly for the last twenty years. Still, though, she could not help but recall the need of his kiss, the quiet words he'd spoken to her in the still of the night, the peace, the glory, the utter abandon of him moving inside her. After all this time she still did not _know_ , could not say for sure if he was a wonderful man who loved her or a lascivious rogue who had taken pleasure wherever he could find it, and she could not say which possibility troubled her more.

She would have to leave the kitchen eventually, she knew. She would have to take up her post at the bar, and dance her merry dance, smiling and laughing and pretending that her entire world wasn't crumbling around her ears. She would have to face James, would have to face the fears that kept her awake at night, would have to face her need of him, and she worried that she did not have the strength to survive the coming days without losing her head completely. Her heart had already been lost, long ago.


	17. Chapter 17

**16 July 2006**

In the wake of Ruth's declaration and Maren's untimely interruption, Harry keenly felt the need to clear his head, to breathe the fresh air and reorient himself. It felt as if, with just a few simple words, Ruth had turned his entire life upside down, and he had no notion of how to proceed.

No trip to Galway would be complete without taking a long, meandering walk along Salthill Prom, and so Harry set out to stretch his legs and give himself time to think. As he strolled along with the breathtaking view of Galway Bay spreading out before him, he allowed his thoughts to wander as they would, drifting back to his youth and all his many failures, big and small. He tried to remind himself that Ruth was not certain whether he was Maren's father at all, that it was entirely possible he had not abandoned his child to be raised by another man. This thought offered scant comfort, however; less than an hour after hearing those words, less than twenty-four hours after meeting her for the first time, he _felt_ like her father, felt responsible for having left Maren and Ruth alone, felt the need to protect Maren from the harshness of the world they inhabited. There was so much he didn't know about her, about the life she had lead, the people she'd known, the things she'd done. So many questions to answer, and Harry wanted to learn it all, wanted everything, all at once.

This had always been Harry's greatest weakness; he never did anything by half measure. When he drank, he drank the finest whiskey, in copious amounts. When he broke his vows to his wife, he did it not once, but many times, with alarmingly unsuitable women. When he fell out with his son, he went more than a decade without speaking to the lad again. And when he fell in love with Ruth he had done it so completely, so wholeheartedly that no matter how many years had passed she still held him in her thrall, still possessed him utterly, and he still wanted her with a depth of need that shocked him. It was foolish, he knew, to jump without looking, to expect her to fall into his arms as if nothing had changed, to allow himself to consider, even for a moment, how different things might have been if only he'd chosen another path. Yet still he could not stop himself wondering where they might go from here, if there might be some way for him to mend the rift between himself and Ruth, some way for him to get to know Maren, even if the girl never learned the truth of their possible connection.

If there was a way he could not see it; as things stood he had no notion of what Ruth wanted from him. She told him that she had only asked for him in hopes of holding Ryan Kelly accountable for his sins, but when he'd kissed her there in the kitchen, before she pulled away from him he had felt the yearning in her, had tasted the passion burning in her kiss, and he did not for one moment believe that her feelings for him had waned. Perhaps she did not know what she truly wanted, perhaps she was too burdened with fear and doubt to listen to the clamoring of her heart, but Harry was resolved not to let his sojourn in Galway come to a close without confronting her once more. He would be delicate, he would be tactful, but he would not let this opportunity pass him by.

Thus resolved he stopped at one of the little restaurants along the Prom for a bite of lunch and then ambled back to the pub, plotting and planning all the while. It was rather a long walk, and he was tired and sweaty at the end of it, so upon arriving at Shaw's he bypassed the dining room and marched straight up the stairs. Safely ensconced in his room once more he withdrew his mobile from his pocket, and placed a call to John Walsh with An Garda Síochána.

"Harry! Welcome to Ireland," John greeted him cheerfully.

Harry fought the urge to utter some bitter retort; so far his time in Ireland had been full of surprises, and he found himself feeling rather lost, rather on edge as a result. Already he was losing sight of why he'd come; he'd forgotten that he'd promise to ring John as soon as he arrived, and until he'd taken his stroll along the Salthill Prom he'd nearly forgotten that he wasn't in charge here. This was John's operation, and Harry was merely lending a hand. Much as he longed to find Ryan Kelly and string him up by his toes, Harry knew that was not his place. John had brought him to Ireland to gather intel, not to strong-arm the locals and wage his own private war.

"Thanks for that," he said eventually, having settled on a much more moderate tone than he longed to take.

"Have you had a chance to speak with Lolita?" John asked him with a cheeky lilt to his voice.

 _Oh Christ, not that again,_ Harry thought glumly.

"I'm not sure that's the most appropriate moniker for her," he said sternly.

John just laughed. "Whatever you want to call her. Have you spoken to her?"

 _Have I spoken to her?_ Harry had done more than that; he had kissed her, had cradled her in his arms, had felt his slumbering heart revive at the touch of her hand.

"I have, and she had some interesting matters to report. Do you have any local agents on the ground in Galway?"

"I do," John answered slowly. The Special Detective Unit was John's domain, and he himself was based in Dublin. Harry would need help, to investigate his suspicions, and he had no authority in this city, in this country. The only hope he had of finding justice for Ruth lay in convincing John to allocate resources for the investigation, and Harry desperately needed him onside.

"My contact -we'll call her Marion, yes?" Harry began. It wouldn't do, to continue to refer to Ruth, a grown woman very much in control of her life and her future, as _Lolita._ The name _Marion_ had come to Harry as he walked along, thinking of Ruth when he first met her, that night when she'd been huddled in the corner of the pub reading _Ulysses,_ insensible to the world beyond the pages of her book. In the novel, _Marion_ was the proper name given to Molly Bloom, Leopold's wife, Joyce's answer to Homer's Penelope. Harry was not certain whether John had ever read Joyce's staggering, nigh-on incomprehensible _magnum opus,_ and he didn't particularly care. He needed a codename for Ruth, and he thought that one suited her as well as any other.

"Whatever you like," John responded, his voice the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

"Right, well, Marion has some concerns about the local dockmaster, a man called Ryan Kelly. He comes from a rather notorious family, and he has a history of...rabble rousing."

John grunted. " _Dockmaster?_ Jesus, Harry, it's like you're living in a Dickens novel."

Harry ignored this, and continued on unfazed. "If anything is coming through that harbor, you can bet Kelly knows about it. I'm not certain he'll remember me, but if he does, he won't be pleased to see me. I'll need a few agents to look into him."

On the other end of the line John was silent for several long moments. If their roles had been reversed Harry knew that such a suggestion would have drawn his own ire; his people, his resources were his to dispose of as he saw fit, and historically he had always raised vehement objections to anyone trying to tell him how to manage his department. No doubt John felt the same, but now was not the time to indulge in petty jurisdictional squabbles.

"Might be I could spare the manpower to look into this Kelly," John conceded at last. "I'll arrange to have one of my boys meet you tonight. What time does the pub close for business?"

Harry thought for a moment. Today was Sunday, so that meant - "Midnight."

"Right. I'll have him meet you in the carpark at ten past. Wait for the crowd to thin out. His name's Burns. Big lad, great bushy beard. Give the codeword _Gibraltar."_

Harry gave a bit of a start, at that; in _Ulysess_ , Marion hailed from Gibraltar. Had John noticed Harry's allusion, or had he pulled his codeword out of thin air? Did it matter?

"Gibraltar," Harry repeated.

"Right. Now, don't go bossing him around, Harry. Just tell him what he needs to know, and let him do his job."

Harry grunted and ended the phone call as politely as he could. Too many years of being the boss spook had changed him, and he found he balked at taking orders on principle alone.

* * *

Given the lateness of the hour, Harry was not at all surprised to find the dining room all but deserted when he at last ventured inside. It was half past eleven, and most of the other patrons had long since departed, seeking their beds and a bit of a rest before the start of another work week. A few stalwart souls remained, drinking with the sort of single-minded purpose Harry recalled all too well from the days just following his divorce, when he'd drunk enough whiskey to float an armada in the hope of forgetting, even for a moment, what an utter ruin he'd made of his life.

He had hoped to find Ruth standing guard behind the bar, her cheerful armor in place as she served her guests, but luck was not with him this evening. It was Maren, and not her mother, who came to wait upon him. Harry ordered his drink, watching the girl all the while, her smooth, graceful movements so reminiscent of Ruth, the light flashing in her eyes all her own.

She did not depart, when she placed his whiskey in front of him, choosing instead to linger, leaning against the bar and watching him with those so eyes so large and round and blue, roiling with doubt like the sea in a storm. Harry endured her scrutiny in silence, uncertain as to what Ruth had told her, uncertain as to what approach might best be suited when it came to speaking with a girl who might - or might not - have been his own child.

"Have a good day, then?" she asked him after a time.

Harry took a long drink, savoring the burn of the whiskey before he answered.

"I did. Took a walk along the Prom, saw the sea."

" _Well, I took a stroll on the old long walk, of a day -I-ay-I-ay,_ " Maren began to sing a voice as deep and warm and rich as her mother's. That startled him, somewhat; Ruth had always loved to sing, and he had fond memories of lying in the bed in his room upstairs of a morning, drowsing in the early morning sun while Ruth cleaned the rooms, singing softly all the while, her voice enveloping him, enrapturing him, enthralling him as a siren of myth. This song was one Harry had heard a time or two before, though he could not recall all the words; it _sounded_ old, in a way that some songs do, as if it had always been there, floating softly in the wind that blew in from the bay.

"Indeed," he murmured, his throat too tight to allow him to say anything more.

"And was the sea to your liking?" Maren asked him archly, still leaning against the bar, still watching him like a cat who couldn't quite decide whether pouncing was worth the effort.

"I-"

"Oy! Maren!" a voice boomed across the darkness of the pub behind him. Harry had all but forgotten the presence of the other guests at the bar, so caught up was he in this game of push and pull with Maren. He glanced over his shoulder, and came face-to-face to with a sight that made his blood run cold. Ryan Kelly was sauntering across the floor, and beside him there walked a lad who had to have been his son, so strong was the resemblance between the pair. It occurred to Harry as he watched them that he had seen the boy before; _that's the lad who made her laugh last night,_ he realized. The thought filled him with dread; the last thing Ruth needed was for her daughter to fall for Kelly's son. _No wonder she looked so cross,_ he mused.

"Pair of whiskeys, and be quick about it," Ryan Kelly barked as he and his strapping son came to rest on a pair of stools to Harry's right. Though Harry had returned his gaze to his own drink, he could feel the weight of their eyes heavy upon his shoulder, and he warred with himself, trying to determine the best way forward. The pub would close soon, and he had to meet John's agent; now was not the time to go getting into barroom brawls with the locals, no matter how he longed to kick Ryan Kelly's teeth in.

For her part Maren did not object to Ryan's patronizing tone, and she fetched down their drinks without another word.

While he sat, his whole body strung taut as a bow, Harry stared at his watch, wondering if he might be lucky enough to escape this evening without speaking to Kelly, wondering if that were the sort of luck he hoped for at all. He wanted, very much, to take advantage of the opportunity, to take the measure of the man, and not judge him for the reckless boy he had been. Still, though, thoughts of Ruth stayed his hand; Ruth still hated Ryan Kelly bitterly, she still feared him, and whatever trouble Harry might or might not get himself into, Ruth still had to live with these people, after he'd gone. The last thing he wanted was to make life any more difficult for her than it had to be.

And so he sat, and drank, and waited, listening to Ryan's boisterous conversation with his son, listening to the boy gently teasing Maren whenever she passed him by.

"Don't know why you fancy her," Ryan said after a time, when Maren was too far away to hear. "Mother's a whore, no doubt the girl will be as well."

Harry's grip tightened on his glass to the point he feared he might break it. _How dare he?_ Harry wondered, his jaw clenched, a vein throbbing in his neck. How could Ryan Kelly sit in this pub, this pub that Ruth owned, that she cherished, that she had painstakingly restored, and speak so ill of her? What grievance could he possibly bear that would make him so bold as to say such things about her in her place of business, surrounded by people who were ostensibly rather fond of her?

Before he could well and truly stick his foot in it, Maren came floating back to their end of the bar.

"All right, lads?" she asked. Though she was speaking to both of them it was the boy who held her attention, and Harry watched her surreptitiously, his heart plummeting when he saw the way her cheeks flushed prettily in his presence. "Only we're about to close for the night." She reached out to collect their glasses, but Ryan Kelly caught her by the wrist.

"I think we'll have another, won't we, Connor? You don't mind keeping the doors open for us, do you, girl?"

The sneering, snide expression on his face and the sight of his hand on Maren's arm shattered what little remained of Harry's self control. Regardless of whether or not she was Harry's daughter, he felt she deserved better, and he could not let such impropriety stand.

"I believe she said it's closing time," he said slowly, turning on his stool to face them.

"And I don't believe I asked you," Ryan answered. Harry's intervention was successful in part; when Ryan turned to him, Maren snatched her hand out of his grip and spirited away the glasses. "Stay out of it, old man."

 _He's right about that much,_ Harry thought. Seeing Ryan Kelly in the flesh only served to make him feel old, and weary, to make him wonder, not for the first time, what the bloody hell he was doing out in the field once more.

"Please, Mr. Kelly," Maren said softly. Having dispensed with the glasses - neatly placing them out of Ryan's reach, lest he decide they make fine projectiles - she was standing across from them once more, her gaze darting back and forth between the three of them, her expression faintly pleading. "He didn't mean anything by it. Only it's late, and me mam-"

"Oh, piss on your _mam_ ," Kelly spat.

"Right, then," Harry said. He slipped to his feet, taking a step towards Ryan, knowing it was folly, doing it anyway. Across from him Ryan also rose, towering over Harry, all broad shoulders and latent power, and Harry sized him up, feeling the threat of violence in the air, wondering if there was any chance of his overpowering the younger man.

"Come on, da, let's just leave," Kelly's son intervened, laying a placating hand on his father's shoulder.

For a long moment Harry thought that Ryan was going to ignore his son and go after him any way, but it seemed he was as hesitant to back up his words with deeds as he had been in his youth. He made some show of scoffing, as if the very idea of fighting with Harry was too improbable to even be considered.

"Right, love, we'll leave," he said to Maren. "Give my best to your _mam_." He shot Harry one last, murderous look, and then made his escape.

"I'm sorry, Maren," the boy started to apologize, but before he could say another word his father called out harshly, "Connor!"

The boy hung his head, and hastened to follow his father out of the pub.

"Don't go looking for trouble, Mr. Harrison," Maren told him softly as she watched them depart, catching the corner of her apron in her fingertips and wringing it nervously with her hands, the way Ruth had so often done when she was young. "It's a very bad idea to cross Ryan Kelly."

"It's a very bad idea to cross _me_ ," Harry told her gently.


	18. Chapter 18

**14 February 1985**

They were lying together in one of the booths in the back of the pub, Harry sprawled out along the padded bench with his back propped against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him, Ruth draped precariously atop him. Her nose was pressed against the side of his neck, her dark hair tickling Harry's chin, and though he knew he should have been remorseful, for having so spectacularly broken his vows to his wife, he found that he felt only a sense of bone-deep contentment, as if he'd finally returned home at the end of a long journey. Ruth was soft and warm, and the smell of her, the taste of her lingered, left him beguiled and enchanted and hungry for more.

His chest was bothering him somewhat, but when she'd curled up against him Ruth had been careful to lie along his uninjured side, her fingertips tracing the edge of his bruising feather-lightly. In the morning he knew he would regret his exertions if no other reason than the strain he'd put his bruised and battered body through, but in the moment he was so sated, so replete, so joyously unburdened that he could feel no pain. With one broad hand he gently followed the path of her spine over her cotton dress, up and down and back again, relishing the way she hummed beneath his touch. He had been foolish, he knew, in giving in to his need for her, had been cruel, to offer her this piece of himself that he must surely rescind when his mission was complete, had been selfish, in taking her when he knew his wife was lonesome and waiting for him, but in the aftermath, in the stillness that followed the ferocity of their love making, he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he had been, right, too, right to follow the longing of his heart, right to love this girl as and when he could. Life was short, he knew, too short not to seize upon whatever piece of comfort, whatever piece of hope, whatever piece of goodness he could find.

"What happened here?" Ruth asked sleepily. Her wandering hands had migrated, and now he felt the gentle brush of her fingers against a scar that decorated his right hip. Though Ruth had tugged her dress back into place in defense against the cold of the pub Harry had left his shirt in a crumpled heap on the floor, his trousers his only deference to modesty. In truth, he could have happily frozen to death there and then, if only he could be allowed to continue to feel the touch of her hand against his bare skin.

"Iran," he murmured in reply, shifting slightly so that he could drop a kiss against her hair. "Big scary bloke with a big scary knife."

Ruth made a small, hushed sound of distress, covering the scar with her palm and kissing his shoulder tenderly.

 _This is dangerous._ The thought was fleeting but it was there just the same, his spy's nature ever watchful, reminding him that any connection, any vulnerability could be his doom. The spook who trusted too freely was a dead spook. It was so _easy_ , though, to trust her, to allow her to glimpse him as he was, to take solace in the circle of her arms.

"And here?" she asked after a time. Her hand had continued on his journey across his body, finding the indentation of an old bullet wound on his right bicep.

"Berlin," he answered. Though he was enjoying their little game, enjoying the way she touched him, rejoicing in her obvious concern for him, delighting in sharing the truth of himself with her he was ever mindful of the line that every man in his line of work must draw, between what must be said and what must remain unspoken. It would do no harm to tell her _when_ he had been wounded, but to tell her _why_ would be tantamount to treason.

Ruth's hand curled around his arm, holding him fast while she pondered his words. Beneath her Harry tensed, wondering what she was thinking, what she was feeling, if she had realized her mistake in offering herself to such a dangerous man. He had no need to worry, however.

"Quite the world traveller, aren't you?" she asked in a wry sort of voice.

He chuckled, tightening his arms around her to keep her from falling off the bench. Harry loved that about her, he really did; though she was possessed of a deep, endearing sort of optimism she was no fool, and she knew too well the dangers, the darkness of the world around her. That dichotomy in her nature, that contradiction between her romanticism and her pragmatism, was part of what made her quite the most fascinating woman he had ever known.

"You could be, too, you know," he told her in a soft voice. When he closed his eyes, holding her like this, he could almost imagine that he was someone else, just a man, in love with a woman, just a man talking to his lover, not a spy or an adulterer or a murderer or any of it. Ruth saw _him,_ saw the man he was, and he found he was already addicted to it, to this sense being known.

"What, be a spy?" she teased him, nudging him with her shoulder.

"Travel the world," he answered, unable to keep the smile from his face as he imagined, just for an instant, what it might be like to take her hand and lead her out of that pub, to take her to Paris, to Rome, to Vienna, to see her eyes dancing in the sunlight reflecting through the stained glass windows of every cathedral he'd ever wanted to visit. Only for an instant, though, before he felt her tense, felt her drop away from him, her forehead pressed hard to his chest.

"Oh, James," she sighed, her voice taking on a melancholy note. It grieved him to hear her speak in such a tone, to know that even now, in this moment of tranquility they had carved out for themselves, the world beyond threatened to undo them. There was a sorrow in her, a sorrow he had seen the moment they first met, though he'd yet to learn its origin. To be so confronted with it now, with the mystery of her, with all the parts of her he did not know, might not ever know, snuffed out the flames of his desire, his momentary happiness, and left him weak and wounded once again.

"You could," he persisted, trying to comfort her, trying to bring her into the moment with him, trying to make her smile. "You're brilliant, Ruth. You could do anything. You could go to university. You could see the world."

"This is as far as I'm going, James," she told him with a certainty that chilled him to the core. "This is all of the world I'll ever see." As she spoke she lifted her hand, gestured to the empty tables and chairs that surrounded them. "Don't ask me to hope for more."

And though he could not bear it, though he nearly wept to hear her so resigned to so inelegant a fate, he knew what she meant, understood her request. There was nothing quite so dangerous as hope, for there was nothing that could wound as deeply as a hope unfilled, a dream unrealized. Bitter disappoint could kill as surely as a bullet, and he knew it.

"I should go," she said, struggling to pull herself upright without causing him pain. She failed in that regard; her words had struck him, had pierced his heart, and he could think of no injury more unbearable than being separated from her.

"You don't have to," he told her, shifting with her as she moved so that they sat upright together, his arms still loosely wrapped around her. And though he hated himself for it, for trying to stop her, trying to keep her with him when she so clearly longed to flee he leaned in, and brushed a kiss against her lips, tempting her, offering her that which was not his to give.

"It's late," she answered, though she did not leave him just yet; she cradled his face in her hands, and kissed him, hard, catching his lip between her teeth, drawing him in and then retreating, leaving him breathless and yearning for her. "My mother will worry."

"Your mother is asleep," Harry answered, and when he kissed her he felt her smile against his lips. This kiss was longer, warmer, wetter than the ones that had preceded it, their tongues wrangling together while her hands tangled in his hair, while she pressed her body hard and fast to his, while they molded together. It was a kiss that lied, a kiss that promised more, a kiss that promised everything.

"James," she whispered his name, and he felt his heart constrict at the sound, wondering if he ought to tell her his true name, wondering if knowing that he had lied would cement his betrayal and send her running from him, for good this time.

Prudently he released her, and watched her as she slipped to her feet and cast about for her shoes.

"When can I see you again?" he asked her, his eyes following her progress lazily as she meandered about, smiling softly when her fingertips dragged against the tabletop where an hour before he had held her fast, had buried himself inside her.

"You see me every day," she answered. Ruth had found her boots; she bent to tug them on, and Harry watched her all the while, watched the graceful curve of her body, the deft, sure movements of her delicate hands. Everything she did enchanted him, and he knew it, and could not bring himself to regret it.

"You know what I mean." Finally Harry rose to his feet, only just managing to contain the groan of discomfort that nearly escaped when he put his weight on his damaged knee. Already the hard reality in which they lived was encroaching, reminding him at every turn that he was on an operation, and that associating with her was dangerous.

"Saturday," she answered, gathering up his shirt and passing it to him. Carefully Harry pulled it on, but Ruth stopped him, stepping into the circle of his arms to do up his buttons herself. "In the morning. My mother will be shopping, and David will be down here drowning in coffee and shouting at everyone who comes too close. I'm supposed to clean the rooms."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Harry asked her, bending his head to capture her lips once more and kiss the expression of mock indignation off her face.

"You should be careful, Mr. Harrison," she said, dancing out of his grasp for good and all. "And put some ice on that rib."

Before Harry could say another word she was gone, slipping behind the bar and out through the kitchen, silent as a shadow. For a moment he stood stock still, staring at the table, dizzy and drunk on the taste of her. He could not remain there forever, though, and so he forced himself to turn, making his way out through the main doors. He closed them carefully and then limped up the stairs, tumbling onto his bed with his clothes still on, his eyelids heavy and his whole body begging him to rest. Though it was late and he was bone-weary he found he could not sleep; his demons always came to him in the darkness, his doubts, his fears magnified in the absence of daylight, in the absence of other distractions.

 _You know what your problem is, Harry?_ He could practically hear Juliet's voice in his head. _You want too much. You want Jane, you want me, you want to be a father, you want to be a spy, you want to be a good man, you want to do your job well. Sometimes you have to choose. And if you don't, you'll wake up one day and find the choice has been made for you._

She was right, he knew. He couldn't go on like this, couldn't fuck a girl against a table in a pub and go home to his wife and expect things to continue on as normal. That wasn't what alarmed him, though; what frightened him was the slowly dawning realization that for once there was one thing he wanted above all the rest. He wanted Ruth, and somewhere deep in his heart a seed of rebellion had been planted, nurtured by the quiet voice that whispered to him in the still of the night, that told him his marriage was already as good as done, that painted a picture of how his life could be, if only he made that choice, and chose Ruth.


	19. Chapter 19

**16 July 2006**

The night was balmy, the gentle breeze blowing in off the canal sending a few errant bits of rubbish tumbling across the carpark. Harry loitered in the darkness, checking his watch as he shifted uneasily from one foot to another. The altercation with Kelly had left him unsettled; though he was more than willing to place himself in danger in order to defend Ruth and Maren, he was nonetheless disturbed by the realization of his own limitations. If he were given the element of surprise or a weapon close to hand he had no doubt that he could hold his own, but in a bare knuckle brawl with a man taller, stronger, and younger than he, Harry was less certain of his own prowess. Then again, Kelly had never been a particularly keen fighter; perhaps the odds weren't stacked quite so heavily in his opponent's favor as he believed. Still, though, Harry knew his days of fighting in pubs were long past him. In recent years his battles had been fought in an altogether different sort of venue, carefully outmaneuvering politicians from behind his desk or making bargains with the devil while sipping whiskey from the overstuffed armchairs of many a members-only club. Harry couldn't help but wonder what his younger self would think, should he have been given an opportunity to see how much his life would change.

John Walsh had told him to wait until ten past, but it was nearly half past when a great bearded giant of a man came ambling across the carpark, headed straight for Harry. The man had a wild mane of unruly russet hair, and his dark eyes gleamed beadily in the glow of the one lone streetlamp, nestled like tiny beetles beneath two bushy eyebrows.

The man stopped less than a meter away from him; Harry found his steely gaze rather unnerving, all things considered. John Walsh had described his agent as a "big lad" with a "great bushy beard", and this gentleman seemed to fit that description. There was always a risk, when meeting assets for the first time, the risk that perhaps he had identified the wrong person, or that his asset had already been turned by the other side, and that made him nervous. Though, in this particular instance, Harry supposed that technically _he_ was the asset, and this Burns character, if in fact it was Burns who stood before him, was the proper agent.

"Gibraltar," Harry said, keeping his voice low and steady, flexing his right hand and doing his best to appear in control of the situation, though he knew that nothing could be farther from the truth. He was working without a net here, trapped once more in Ireland, his thoughts consumed by Ruth and his impulses made suspect by that very fact.

"Nice to meet you, Sir Harry," the man said, holding out his hand to shake. "Samuel Burns."

"Mr. Burns," Harry greeted him as the man released his grip. Samuel Burns really was quite a tall fellow, and broad shouldered, too; for a moment Harry wondered if the lad had ever played rugby.

"Walsh said you have some information for me?" Burns asked him, leaning casually against a white transit van. Funny, that; twenty years before, Harry had used a similar vehicle to disguise his own assignations in this very same carpark. _Surely it's not the same van?_ He wondered. At this point, he felt nothing could surprise him.

"I do. My source-"

"And who is your source?" Burns interrupted him, shoving his hands in his pockets and putting on a good show of appearing lazy and uninterested despite the burning intensity of his gaze.

Harry bristled at the question. "My source remains anonymous."

"Then we don't have a deal," Burns told him, pushing himself upright. "I don't do business with people I don't know-"

"I'm not asking you to trust me, Mr. Burns," Harry told him sharply. Without intending to he had adopted his best on-the-Grid voice, a voice that spoke of power, and brooked no argument. "I trust my source implicitly. Walsh trusts me implicitly. The question then is not whether you trust me, but whether you trust your boss. Do you, Mr. Burns? Because if you don't, I suggest you ring him now and tell him so yourself."

There was a long, rather tense moment during which Burns studied him rather closely, and Harry stood fast, trying not to let his anger at the situation get the better of him. While he was pleased that John Walsh had not revealed Ruth's identity as his source, he was unused to having his authority so blatantly questioned, and to face this sort of insubordination when he was on someone else's patch and unable to enact any sort of official discipline left him furious. Rather suddenly, though, Burns let loose a hearty guffaw and clapped him on the shoulder.

"I'm just taking the piss," the man said, still laughing. "You should have seen your face." Harry sighed in irritation; so Burns was one of _them_ , then, those cocky young agents who thought everything was a laugh. _Fantastic._

"All right then," Burns said. "What's your source got to say?"

"There's a man called Ryan Kelly. He's in charge on the docks. Anything comes through that harbor, Kelly will know about it."

Burns nodded. "Your source have any evidence to incriminate this man?" he asked seriously, the mirth slowly fading from his ruddy face.

"It's in his blood. His father was a gambler and a rabble-rouser with IRA ties. Kelly's been in trouble since he was a teenager. There's more," Harry added, feeling his heart as heavy as lead in his chest. "There was a man called George…" his voice trailed off as he realized that he did not know George's surname. Had Ruth taken his name when they wed? He didn't know, and he hated it, hated that reminder of how very much he had missed. "At any rate, he was married to the woman who owns this pub," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the gloomy shadow of Shaw's looming behind him, "and he was killed in an accident on the docks. My source has reason to believe George saw something, and was murdered to keep him quiet."

"That's a serious accusation," Burns said, his eyes narrowing shrewdly.

"You may have noticed, Mr. Burns, I am a serious man," Harry growled in response.

"I had that feeling about you, yeah." Burns cleared his throat, shrugged his shoulders. "Right, I'll look into this Kelly. In the meantime, you keep your head down."

"How should I contact you?" Harry asked. It was late, and he was weary, ready to seek his bed and leave the games for the younger men to play.

" _I'll_ contact _you,"_ Burns corrected him sharply. "Walsh said you're staying here?"

Harry nodded in the affirmative.

"Right. If I need you, I'll find you here. In the meantime, don't cause any trouble, yeah?"

It seemed to Harry that people kept him offering that particularly sage bit of wisdom, and he was sick to death of hearing it.

"I know, I know. Keep a level head, don't do anything rash," he muttered.

"That's right. 'Til next time, Sir Harry." Burns clapped him on the shoulder, and then disappeared, sauntering off the way he'd come.

"'Til next time, Mr. Burns," Harry murmured to the darkness.

* * *

Harry was in the midst of a _very_ good dream. Caught somewhere between fantasy and memory he was lying somewhere - a field, perhaps? - with Ruth in his arms, the smell of her hair filling his senses, the sound of the sea lulling him ever deeper into sleep. It was...calm, and peaceful, a moment of bliss, an instant of happiness. He could feel the softness of her skin beneath his hands, though he could not quite see her, could not quite focus on the details. He knew it was Ruth, though, would know her anywhere, the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice.

 _"What in Christ's name are you doing, James?"_ she asked in a tired little whisper.

Harry's eyelids fluttered open, and he groaned as the first light of day washed over him. After his meeting with Burns the night before Harry had returned to his bed, unable to sleep for the endless churning of his thoughts, though he'd eventually drifted off some time around four. Given that the light streaming in through the blinds was wan and pale, he assumed it was early morning yet, and since he was essentially on a glorified holiday, he had every intention of having a lie in. _Might as well_ , he thought. His dream had left him half-hard and aching for Ruth, and it seemed like rather a good idea to seize the moment, to linger in his fantasy with her a bit longer, to bring himself to pleasure before he saw her again lest his libido run away with him entirely.

Even as he slid his right hand under the duvet, fully intent on a bit of...self exploration, he cast his eyes about the room and very nearly shouted out in alarm.

Ruth was perched on the side of the bed, watching him warily. For a moment he wasn't entirely sure she was real; his head felt as if it were stuffed full of cotton, his thoughts hazy and disorganized. She looked lovely this morning; her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun at the nape of her neck, a few errant strands escaping to highlight the curve of one slender cheek. She wore a soft blue dress in a casual wrap style, emphasizing the gentle swell of her breasts while keeping her skin tantalizing out of view. His half-mast erection was growing steadily beneath the duvet as he watched her, recollections of the taste of her kiss and the sound of her moans swirling through his mind, his self-restraint nowhere to be found in his sleep-addled state.

"Ruth?" he asked uncertainly.

"Are you mad, James?" she responded, slipping gracefully to her feet. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"What are you-"

"You tried to pick a fight with Ryan Kelly!" she snapped, and then everything clicked into place. Apparently Maren had told her _mam_ about their altercation in the pub. Harry sighed and dragged himself into a sitting position, not bothering to cover his naked chest, though he did fold his hands in his lap demurely, hoping to disguise the evidence of his desire for her.

"I won't apologize for it," he told her firmly. "I won't sit idly by and let him speak about you in such a way."

"In what way?" Ruth's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Harry could have kicked himself; Maren hadn't heard that part of the Kellys' conversation, so naturally Ruth had no need to ever know what Ryan had said about her. Harry had ruined things, though, speaking without thought for the consequences.

"It was nothing, Ruth. He's all talk, you know that."

"I do," she agreed glumly, running her hands over her hair in a nervous sort of way.

Though perhaps it should have felt like an invasion, waking to find that Ruth had broken into his room in order to chastise him, Harry found he felt only pleasure at her presence. There was something intimate about it, something in the way she had felt comfortable enough to come to him like this that spoke of the deep connection, the trust that existed between them. If Ruth had been anyone else, Harry would have already removed her bodily from the room. As it was, he was pleased to see her, and he longed to keep her there with him, for whatever length of time he could manage.

"Can I ask you something, Ruth?" She was pacing by the window, twisting her hands together, her expression speaking louder than words; clearly she was beginning to think she'd made a mistake, in coming to him like this, and Harry was intent on disabusing her of that notion forthwith.

"Go on, then," she sighed.

"Why the bad blood, between you and Kelly? I understand why you hate him," he added quickly, "but I've never understood why he harbors such a grudge for you. You are - were - the gentlest girl I've ever known."

For a long moment it looked as if Ruth were going to strike him, or bolt from the room, or perhaps both, but in the end she did neither. She collapsed slowly into herself, taking a seat once more on the edge of the bed and wrapping her arms around her waist.

"I've never told anyone this," she began slowly. Though he was eager to hear her tale Harry knew better than to rush her, and so he only took a deep breath and waited, trying to ignore the way his heart rate increased at her proximity. "When the Kellys first came here, Ryan and I were seventeen. I didn't know anything about him, then; he was just the new boy, and all the girls fancied him. In the beginning, he was nice. I know it's difficult to believe it now, James, but he was. Or, I thought he was. He used to walk with me to the library, used to come round to the pub for supper just to see me. We weren't properly together, nothing official, but I thought we had...an understanding."

 _Oh, Christ, no_ , Harry thought as the realization that all his darkest fears might well be true began to sink in.

"One night he took me down by the water, and he was so...he could be charming, when he wanted to be. When he wanted something. And he did. And we…" her voice trailed off, but she had no need to finish her sentence. Harry knew her well enough to hear the words she could not voice aloud.

"And the next day," she continued, telling her story to the floor rather than looking him in the eye, "everyone knew about it. He was bragging about it to all his friends. Even David heard about it, and he was so embarrassed he didn't speak to me for a week. The next time Ryan came in the pub, I just went mad, and I slapped him, right there, in front of all his gobshite friends. Humiliated him, like. He always had it in for me, after that. The thing is," she drew in a sharp breath, chanced a furtive glance at him, "I don't think he meant anything by it, in the beginning. I think he might actually have been fond of me. He's just an arrogant muppet, he always has been. But after I hit him, I'd wounded his pride, and to him that was unforgivable."

 _Could it really be so simple?_ Harry wondered as he watched her in her agony of anxiety. Was Ryan Kelly such a fool that a single slap could have birthed a lifelong enmity? _I think he just might be,_ Harry thought glumly.

As ever, Ruth seemed conflicted, guilt and hurt vying on her lovely face. Harry knew her, knew her well, and he knew that whatever Kelly had done, she would blame herself, would see her youthful indiscretion as the root of all of her current woes. That was just the way she operated; she took all the blame, and none of the glory.

Without a second thought Harry reached out, and stilled the endless wringing of her hands with his own. "It isn't your fault, Ruth," he told her softly. "Ryan's just a prat."

"A prat who may have murdered my husband," she whispered, tears glistening in the corners of her luminous eyes.

 _That's enough of that,_ Harry thought grimly. He threw off the duvet, slung his legs over the side of the bed, and reached for her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and drawing her close to him. To his surprise - and his delight - she came willingly, nestling her face in the crook of his neck. "You're not responsible, Ruth. Whatever happened in the past, Ryan's the one to blame. And whatever he's done, I promise you, he will answer for it."

"Thank you," she breathed.

For a long moment he simply held her, drinking in the warmth of her, his skin catching fire everywhere she touched him. It would be easy, so bloody _easy_ , to turn her in his arms, to press his lips to hers, to drag her down to the bed with him. Ruth had other ideas, however; she heaved a great sigh, and disentangled herself from his arms.

"I should go," she murmured, carefully smoothing down the front of her dress.

"Ruth-"

"Be careful, James," she told him, and with that she was gone, and Harry found himself alone once more.


	20. Chapter 20

**17 July 2006**

Ruth could not say what had compelled her to go into James's room that morning; perhaps it was simply her fear for his safety, or perhaps it was a desire to be close to him once more, or perhaps it was curiosity, that little voice in the back of her mind asking _what if_ , wondering what might happen if she should find herself alone with him in tight quarters once again, in the same room where they had spent so many nights together in the past. Then again, perhaps it was a combination of all three. Whatever the reasons, she was astounded by her own audacity, and petrified by the yearning the sight of his shirtless torso had inspired in her. The years had not been kind to him; he'd added to his collection of scars, and time had stolen the lean muscle of his youth, but when he wrapped his arms around her, cradled her against the solid heat of his body, it had taken every ounce of self-control she possessed not to give in to him, not to turn in his arms and press her lips to his, to consign herself to the flames that threatened to consume her utterly. All the promises she had made to herself, about keeping her distance, about not trying to revisit the past, were very nearly forgotten when he held her.

Mercifully, he had not made an appearance throughout the long day. He might have spent the hours holed up in his bed upstairs, but somehow Ruth thought not; James had always been an early riser. When they first met, James had blamed his unerring internal clock on his days in the military. Like his work as a spy, the knowledge that James had been a soldier had unsettled Ruth then, as it did now; she was loath to consider where a man his age might have fought, for Queen and country. The Falklands, perhaps? Belfast? Had he killed men, in service to his county? She was almost certain that he had. It didn't bear thinking about. She knew enough, about where he had been and the dangers had faced; in this one particular instance, she felt that wondering was preferable to knowing for certain, and she had no intentions of digging to the heart of the matter. At any rate, it seemed unlikely that her soldier-turned-spy had spent the day abed; no, it was much more likely that he had slipped out the side door, and gone off to do God only knew what out in the city. Ruth was grateful for his absence; it gave her time to think, to calm the riotous clamoring of her heart, to remind herself that he was here to serve a purpose greater than her own treacherous desire for him.

The day had passed slowly, the way Mondays often did. Her usual patrons would spend the day at work, and would seek their beds at a reasonable hour, rather than spending the whole night causing a ruckus in her dining room. Ruth didn't mind the lethargy of a Monday, though; it gave her a chance to breathe, a chance to think, and a chance to spend a few more precious hours in her daughter's company.

Maren had apparently set aside her concern over James's appearance in their kitchen on Sunday, no doubt consoled somewhat by the fact that he had gone out on his own, rather than spending the day mooning about after Ruth. Though she felt a bit guilty for it, there was not a single piece of Ruth that wanted to tell Maren the truth, about her past with James, about the possibility that he might be her girl's father. Ruth had sacrificed a great deal to give her daughter the best life she could, to be certain that Maren's childhood was a happy one, that she would not want for anything, and as a result Maren had nothing but fond memories of George and those sunny days she had spent running wild through the garden. Ruth didn't have it in her to spoil those recollections for her, to taint those memories of her happy home life with innuendo and the salacious reality of her mother's youthful indiscretions.

Once she'd gotten past her initial bout of displeasure regarding James's appearance in their home, Maren had returned to her usual chatty self, and so she and Ruth spent a rather pleasant day tending their paltry few guests and chatting about nothing of import. As evening fell Ruth resumed her place behind the bar while Maren walked the floor, carting drinks and food to the four corners of the room, leaving nothing but smiles in her wake. _Oh to be young again,_ Ruth thought with a sigh, though only a moment later she found herself thinking just the opposite as Ryan Kelly came sauntering through the doors, bringing with him the salty, sweaty reek of the docks and a flood of regret.

Of all her many mistakes, running afoul of Ryan Kelly topped the list. Though now the very sight of him turned her stomach, and had done for years, she could not forget that he had once been kind to her, that she had sacrificed everything for that kindness. She had been young, and lonesome, and what little affection he'd offered her had been as welcome as water in a desert. That was long ago, before she'd learned how hard the world could be, before Ryan had taught her that Satan himself had been an angel first.

Tonight it seemed he was spoiling for a fight; everything about him, the way he moved, the pugnacious thrusting of his jaw, the glittering of his dark eyes, screamed that this was a man who had come to this place to cause trouble. Ruth was in no mood to indulge him; though she longed to ban him from the pub outright, she knew this would only magnify the grief he brought to her, knew that he would find some new, horrible way to punish her for her insolence. And so she bit her tongue, and stepped up to the bar to greet him. Ruth had learned long ago that the best way to handle Ryan was to remove his claws, to treat him as she would someone else's unruly child, a child she was not permitted to box around the ears, no matter how she might long to.

"Whiskey?" she asked him, already reaching for the glass. Ryan grunted in the affirmative as he took his seat, watching her like a hawk all the while.

"I'll take a bit of food, as well, if there's anything edible coming out of your kitchen tonight," he said.

Ruth bit the inside of her cheek to stop the sharp retort that threatened to escape, and simply nodded. "Soda bread and seafood chowder?" she asked, already turning towards the kitchen. Though she loathed him, she could not deny that she had spent rather a lot of time feeding Ryan Kelly over the years, and she had learned what he liked. It was best to give it to him, and quickly, not to bother him while he ate, and to clean up his mess without complaint. Ruth hated it, hated waiting on him, hated the entire submissive act, but she knew he held the power to tear her life to shreds. How Maren had ever come to fancy this man's son was beyond her understanding, and she could only pray the infatuation would pass quickly. _And unconsummated, dear God, please._

Behind her Ryan was growling something intelligible, but she knew his appetite for the pub's seafood chowder was winning out against his desire to find some fault with her, and so she left him to his grumbling, and ducked into the kitchen to place his order. As she spoke to the cook she couldn't help but add, "And it's for Ryan Kelly, so be quick about it, and I won't say a word if you decide to spit in it." The cook just laughed and waved her off; Ruth had yet to meet anyone who genuinely liked Ryan, though plenty of folks seemed to be afraid of him. She'd asked George about it once, demanded to know why it was that he continued to associate with the man, when all Ryan had ever done was look down his nose at everyone around him, George especially. Her husband had just shrugged, and told her in that resigned way of his, "the docks are all I know, _a chuisle_ _._ I need to work, and to work, I need to keep him sweet. He's not so bad, really." And that was that.

Back in the dining room it seemed that Ryan had yet to find someone willing to engage him; even Maren was giving him a wide berth, no doubt feeling a bit skittish following their altercation the night before. Just the thought of him putting his hands on Maren made Ruth's blood boil; she knew that if he dared to do such a thing in her presence her careful charade would crumble, and Ryan would likely find himself on the receiving end of another slap from her. But Maren was a smart girl, and she knew how to handle herself in the rough-and-tumble trade she'd inherited from her mother. Ruth would be managing Ryan on her own tonight.

It was a delicate balance, between her disgust and her self-preservation. Ryan knew what no one else did, that Ruth and James had carried on a torrid affair all those years before. He had discovered them once, in the carpark behind the pub, and promptly rushed off to tell his father. James had left Galway not long after - though not before Connor Kelly sank a knife into his belly - and Ryan had lorded it over her ever since. He had taken it as a personal affront, this knowledge that Ruth had bedded an Englishman, but for some inexplicable reason he had kept his peace, never saying a word about it beyond his infuriating tendency to rib George about Maren's paternity at every turn. Why he had not told everyone he met about what he'd seen, Ruth didn't know, but she felt that truth as sharp as a guillotine blade hanging over her neck, poised to fall at any moment without warning. Ryan held the power to undo the careful house of cards she'd constructed with a single careless word, and she was powerless to stop him.

"You tell that girl to keep away from our Connor," Ryan growled at her as she passed, his eyes fixed on Maren.

"I have done," Ruth murmured before she could stop herself.

"So you think our Connor's not good enough for her, eh?" Ryan fired back, his trademark sneer firmly in place.

 _Ryan Kelly, you are a twat,_ Ruth thought. Aloud she said only, "I think he's a fine lad." _Better than you._

"Too right," Ryan said. He glanced around furtively, and then leaned towards her as he snarled, "At least he's not some bloody Englishman's get."

Ruth's heart began to race, but a quick scan of the room confirmed that Ryan had chosen his moment well, and no one else had heard his vitriol. That at least was a blessing; Ruth hoped that with time she could at least cool Ryan's ire, appease him, or get him drunk enough that he could not longer speak, and Connor could come drag him home to his bed.

"Ryan-" she started to protest, started to try to talk him down, but he wasn't having any of it.

"I heard your dirty tan is back in town," Ryan continued. At this Ruth felt heat flood her cheeks; James had only been back in Galway for a few days, and somehow word of his arrival had already reached Ryan's ears. Before now she had dared to hope that James would have gone unnoticed, given how much his appearance had changed, but now she saw just how foolish this hope had been. People loved to talk, and it seemed that no matter how much they might dislike him, they loved to talk to Ryan especially. Ruth had told James the truth; nothing happened on the docks that Ryan didn't know about, but his sphere of influence had broadened over the years.

"Didn't even recognize him, last night. He's a right fat bastard now, isn't he? Bet you're wondering what you ever saw in a prick like him."

 _Wondering what I ever saw in a prick like you, more like._

"He's just passing through, Ryan. It's nothing. Leave it alone."

Before Ryan could respond Ruth slipped back into the kitchen to retrieve his supper and regain her equilibrium. Her position had never felt as precarious as it did just now, and part of her was deeply worried that James might come waltzing into the pub any moment, looking for a drink and a bit of food and some company. Ruth knew that if that happened there was nothing she could do to contain the fallout; in this mood, Ryan could not be trusted to keep a civil tongue in his head, and James had never been one to back down from a fight, to let a perceived injustice slide.

Luck was on her side, however; the bread and the chowder distracted Ryan, and as the night wore on he bothered her less and less, though she took care to keep his whiskey glass topped up and to keep her mouth shut. James did not put in an appearance, and Ryan left perhaps two hours after he'd arrived, and for once he paid his bill. Though she was glad to see the back of him, Ruth couldn't help but wonder what it was that had stayed his tongue, what horror might lie around the corner.

She didn't have long to wait, in the end; she closed the doors at midnight, and sent Maren and the other girls off home. The pub was quiet and still, and Ruth worked quickly, wiping down the tables and sweeping the floors. When it was finished, all the remained was walking the rubbish out to the dumpster in the back of the carpark. This was Ruth's least favorite task, but having been accosted in the course of traversing the carpark more than once as a girl, she was hesitant to foist it off on any of the young women she employed. It was late, but most people in this area knew her, and respected her, and that respect protected her in a way the girls could not hope for. Her age was a benefit to her, in this one instance, and so she took a deep breath, and set off into the darkness.

Ryan Kelly was waiting for her, there at the back of the carpark, smoking a cigarette, well beyond the feeble pool of light that surrounded the base of the one lone streetlamp.

"All right, Ryan?" she asked him, willing her voice not to shake. _What the hell does he think he's doing?_ She wondered. _How long has he been waiting out here?_

"No. I'm not all right," he answered, pitching his cigarette onto the ground and stubbing it out with his boot. Ruth disposed of the rubbish as quickly as she could, but she hesitated, not wanting to turn her back on him in the darkness. There was no telling what a man like Ryan Kelly could do, given the opportunity.

"What's he doing here, Ruthie?" Ryan asked her, taking a menacing step towards her. There was no need for him to explain who he meant; there was only one _he_ Ryan could be referring to in that tone. Though she hated herself for showing weakness, she took a step back from him.

"He's just a writer, Ryan."

"Like hell he is," Ryan scoffed.

"He is," she insisted, her voice taking on a pleading note despite her best attempts to remain calm. "I have his book, I can show you."

"What's it about, then? How to fuck good Irish girls?" He took another step towards her, and Ruth's fear only grew. It was late, no one was around to hear, and Ryan was stinking drunk on whiskey she'd served to him. _I have to get out of here._

"Ryan-" Ruth took another step away from him, but Ryan lunged for her, grabbing her by the wrist and twisting her arm, hard.

"He's a spook, is what he is. Da knew it, I know it, you know it. What's he got that I don't have, eh, Ruthie? How come you'll fuck him but you won't look at me twice? I thought we did all right, me and you."

For the last twenty-three years, Ruth had lived in fear that Ryan might get such an idea in his head, that he might decide it was time for a repeat performance. She could only barely recall their youthful fumblings; Ryan had been nervous and she had been inexperienced, and the whole encounter had been painfully brief, though not as unpleasant as it could have been. In the moment, she'd rather enjoyed herself, though she had come to regret it most bitterly the following day, when Ryan had opened his bloody mouth and ruined her life.

"Ryan, please-"

"George is dead. My wife ran off. What's stopping us, eh?" He dragged her closer, but before the situation could escalate any further they were disturbed by the flare of headlights; a car had come careening into view, sliding into a parking space not far from where they stood. Ryan released her at once, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Mind how you go, Ruthie," he told her. "You never know who might be lurking about." With that he sauntered off into the night, whistling.

Ruth remained frozen in place, terror and self-loathing swirling round and round inside her. She wrapped her arms around her middle; somehow she felt so bloody cold, despite the relative warmth of the night. The car idled for a moment, and then the lights disappeared as its driver killed the engine, plunging Ruth back into darkness. _I'll kill him,_ she thought glumly. _If he touches me again I'll bloody kill him._

She watched the car, wondering who could possibly be arriving at her pub this late in the evening, but her questions were soon answered; in the jaundiced glow of the streetlight, James unfolded himself from the driver's side of the car.

"Ruth?" he called uncertainly.

Relief washed over her in waves so strong she very nearly crumpled to the ground beneath the deluge. So long as James was near, she knew she would be safe.


	21. Chapter 21

**17 July 2006**

A quick glance at his watch told Harry it was nearly one in the morning; _who on earth was she talking to?_ he wondered as he made his way across the carpark towards Ruth. The closer he drew to her, the more concerned he became; she had wrapped her arms around her middle, her posture tense, closed off, uncertain.

"Everything all right?" he asked her in a low voice when he finally reached her.

Ruth shook her head, and the sense of dread that had been slowly rising in Harry's chest began to grow exponentially. He cast his gaze around them, his eyes searching the blackness for the person who had been speaking to Ruth when he'd arrived, but he saw no sign of anyone in the shadows.

"Who was it, Ruth?" he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle and soft, despite the fierce desire he felt to protect her, to keep her safe from harm.

"Ryan," she answered in a shaky voice. "Don't worry, he's gone," she added. _Dear Ruth_ , he thought, marvelling, not for the first time, at how well she seemed to know him, how she seemed to possess the power to simply look at him, and read his very thoughts.

"Come on, Ruth," he said, taking a step towards her. "Let's go inside."

In a moment of weakness, driven by a need so rash it bordered on the foolish, Harry reached out and wrapped his arm around her waist, guiding her away from the dumpster and towards the feeble lights flickering from inside the pub. For reasons passing all understanding Ruth allowed this familiarity, allowed him to hold her, following along beside him with her head bowed and her eyes focused firmly on the ground beneath her feet.

Thoughts of what Ryan could possibly have been doing, alone with Ruth in a carpark so very late at night, made Harry's very blood boil with rage. Though he was grateful that he had arrived in time, as it appeared that Ryan had not had the opportunity to hurt Ruth in any way, he was kicking himself for having stayed away for so long, for not having been there to defend her against any unwanted contact with the man.

Harry had set out early that morning after Ruth's unexpected visit to his room with the intention of putting some space between them, of giving himself time to think, giving Burns time to go digging for information. At the time it had seemed the logical choice; Harry didn't want to draw attention to himself, and he knew that everyone - John Walsh, Burns, Ruth, _everyone_ \- would be furious with him for causing a scene, for _getting into trouble,_ as Ruth put it. There was a small, selfish, somewhat frightened part of him that wanted to stay away for other reasons, a piece of his heart that worried what might happen should he spend too much time with Ruth, too much time with Maren, should he allow himself to grow too close to them, should he allow himself to dream of a different life. Dreams were dangerous, he knew.

And so Harry had left, taking his hired car and driving down the winding road that led to the Cliffs of Moher, spending the day awash in tourists, vibrant scenery, and a rather nice little cafe. He hadn't intended to stay away so late, but he'd pulled his car to the side of the road when a call came in from Adam, and spent nearly an hour shouting down the line at anyone who would listen as he desperately tried to diffuse yet another political disaster while also doing his best not to reveal where he had gone, or why. In the end, he'd been able to hand the reins back over to Adam, and as he finished the drive back to Galway he found himself wondering, not for the first time, what the hell it was all for. The Home Secretary wanted him back in London - something about an upcoming world trade conference - but Harry still had business to attend to in Galway, and he was having difficulty focusing on anything else.

Once they were safely inside the pub Ruth locked the main doors and led the way into the dining room, making a beeline for the bar and the many bottles glittering behind it. Without a word Harry took a seat across from her and Ruth pulled down two glasses, filling them each with two fingers of whiskey and passing one off to Harry.

"Sláinte," Ruth said faintly, raising her glass towards him in a half-hearted gesture.

"Sláinte," Harry said, echoing her in word and deed.

They were each of them quiet, lost in their own thoughts as they sipped their drinks in the stillness of the empty pub. The pub, like so many old buildings, seemed to whisper in a voice all its own, the creaking of the floorboards and the whisper of the breeze through the windowpanes and the ghosts of a thousand rowdy nights echoing back and forth in the darkness, a chorus murmuring a song too old to truly be understood by anyone, save perhaps for Ruth, this woman who knew this place so well, loved it so deeply, cherished it so wholly. There was an invisible cord that bound Ruth to this place, a chain that Harry could not even dream of breaking. Ruth was the pub and the pub was Ruth; neither could exist without the other.

"He knows you're here," Ruth told him after a time, when she'd finished her drink and reached for the bottle once more, intent on topping up. As she filled her glass Harry watched her closely, and he saw that her hands were shaking.

"How?" he asked, sliding his glass towards her in silent appeal. Ruth smiled at him sadly as she poured his second drink.

"He knows you were the one he spoke to last night. I don't know how, I don't know who told him, but he knows. He knows what you are, James, and that makes him nervous. And when he gets nervous…" her voice trailed off, her eyes dropping away from his own as she chose to study her whiskey rather than his face. The moment those blue-grey eyes left him Harry felt himself bereft, longing to see her once again, to look into those eyes he loved so well, those eyes so unlike any others he had ever known.

"Did he hurt you, Ruth?" Harry asked her. He hated himself for pressing her, but he had to know; a cornered man was a dangerous man, and no one was more dangerous than Ryan Kelly. Harry still bore a scar on his chest from Connor Kelly's knife, and he worried that the son was no less reckless, no less violent than the father. If Ryan had done something to Ruth, then Harry would need to find a way to tell Burns, and quickly. That information could help seal the case against Ryan, and Harry wanted nothing so much as vengeance, for himself, for Ruth, for Maren.

Ruth just shook her head, still refusing to meet his gaze. She opened her mouth as if to speak, taking a sharp breath as those full lips parted, but then she seemed to think better of it, shaking her head again and taking a drink instead.

That never ceased to frustrate Harry, the way she kept her secrets so closely guarded, the way she held everything so close to her chest. It was so difficult for him to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, hard to guess and harder still to coax her into sharing. They had shared that closeness once; years before when they were younger, when he had been braver and she had been more hopeful, Ruth had given a piece of herself to him, had trusted him with her heart. No longer, it would seem.

 _She spoke to you this morning, though,_ he reminded himself. _She came to you then._ For she had; she had come to him in the pale light of dawn, and when he had asked she had offered him the truth about her history with Ryan, no matter how it pained her. Perhaps she was reticent with him now, but it did not always have to be this way. _Treat her gently,_ he told himself, _love her quietly, and she will come to you, in the stillness._

"If he comes near you again, if he frightens you, tell me, Ruth. I will keep you safe," he promised her. He fished about in his pocket, retrieving the battered little notebook and a pen. He tore a page from the book, and scribbled a number on it before handing it over to her.

"That's my mobile," he explained as Ruth tucked the paper into the pocket of her apron. "If you ever need me, please, just ring me. I'll be there."

"Thank you," she murmured.

There was something rather nice about sitting with her in this pub again, in the quiet, far away from prying eyes. It reminded him of so many other nights, so many other times they had stolen away a moment of peace for themselves, when they had danced and laughed and made love, when they had pretended, for however brief a time, that life was easy. Sometimes it was difficult for Harry to believe that he had ever been that man, a man so young, a man so reckless, a man so overwhelmed by love. There had been precious little love in his life since he had left her; oh, there was the love he bore his children, no less powerful, no less ferocious than it had been the day Catherine was born, though it was tempered somewhat now by regret and his own bitter disappointment in himself and his failings. Beyond that, though, he had been alone, falling into bed but never again falling into love, until he walked through those doors and saw her face again and heard the sound of a bell ringing somewhere deep in the back of his mind, as the shattered pieces of his heart knit themselves back together and began to beat in time to the song of his longing for her.

She was beautiful, still. The lines on her face, the sorrow in her eyes, did not dim her beauty, but made her shine all the brighter, a diamond made smooth and sparkling and unbreakable by having survived under such monumental pressure. Her hips, her hands, the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her neck; every inch of her called to him, begged for his attention, his lips, his tongue, his hands, his worship, and he longed to heed that call, to kneel at her altar and offer himself in supplication. And for her part she seemed no less starstruck; when he kissed her in the kitchen she had embraced him with everything she had, and when he held her in the stillness of the morning she had sighed and breathed him in, her nose pressed close against his neck, her body fitting into the nooks and crannies of his own as if they were two pieces of a puzzle, slotting into place.

As he looked at her his heart began to pound, his mouth went dry, his thoughts whirled through his mind a mile a minute, seizing upon possible avenues, ways to draw her close to him again, pouring over each one and casting it aside in turn. He _had_ to speak, felt compelled to say something, anything, to make her smile, make her laugh, to beg her to give him the chance to make her come, to make her come to life again.

"Ruth-"

"How do you do it, James?" she asked him, and her voice was so very warm and so very sad that it nearly broke his heart to hear it. "The lies, the violence, the misery, day in and day out, trusting no one? How can you live with such fear? It's been two days, and I'm so tired of it already I'm not sure I can carry on."

And how could he answer her? How could he explain what sort of man he was, how he had chosen to live this life, cut off from friends and family, surrounded on all sides by enemies, battered and betrayed and always one step behind?

"I don't do it for myself, Ruth," he told her honestly. "What I do, the things I'm not proud of, the things that keep me up at night, I do so that other people don't have to. My work saves lives. It's as simple as that."

"I hardly think that's simple," she responded.

"Maybe not," he agreed, finishing his whiskey in one gulp. Carefully he rose to his feet, and fished his mobile from his pocket.

She was right, of course. Ruth was always right. There was nothing simple about what he did, or his motivations for doing it. Harry had chosen to join the Army as a gift to his mother after her death, the penance he paid for all the sleepless nights, all the trouble he'd given to her, thinking that though she had not lived to see it she would have been proud to know that her oldest son had found his way, had put aside his selfishness and dedicated his life to helping people. And when the Service came calling Harry agreed to go because it sounded exciting, because it sounded like a way to make a greater difference than continuing on in his chosen path, one more cog in the massive military machine. Though the harsh reality of his life had stolen away his idealism, he remained in his heart the same boy he had been, devastated by the loss of his mother, determined to do the right thing. His life had been complicated, damn near inexplicable at times, but when he checked the ledger weighing his good deeds against his sins, he found himself still in credit, and he was thankful for that.

He was still in credit, and he was still determined to live, still determined to love, still determined that somewhere in his world of swirling shadows there was still a chance for his own redemption, and it seemed to him that this chance stood before him now, wearing a soft blue dress and angel's face.

"Dance with me, Ruth," he said quietly, taking a chance and glancing up from his mobile to look at her.

Her mouth was open slightly, frozen in a little "O" of surprise, but at least she was looking at him now. And as she did her eyes softened slightly, the ghost of a smile pulling up the corners of her lips.

"You think I want to dance with a spy?" she asked him, and his heart soared as he looked at her. The words were simple, but they carried with them a world of meaning, a precious memory, a vibrant hope. He found what he was looking for on his mobile, pressed one little button, and then set it on the bartop between them. From the tiny speakers there came the faint sound of fingers on piano keys, and then a voice began to sing; _tonight you're mine, completely…_

"I think you want to dance with me," he told her, holding out his hand for her to accept or spurn as she chose. As he waited, frozen in a single instant while she debated with herself and his every hope hung in the balance it seemed to him that he could feel the years sloughing off his shoulders, that he could see the pub around him shimmering in the periphery of his vision, fading from its current bright, spotlessly clean incarnation into the dim, smoky past. He was young again, and so was she, and he was asking her for everything she had to give, offering himself up in turn.

 _You give your love so sweetly…_

Ruth reached out, and took his hand, and his tattered heart seemed to grow inside his chest until he feared he might burst from hope alone.

Gently he led her out from behind the bar, walked with her to the center of the floor and drew her into his arms, and she moved with him, the touch of her hand, the sound of her sigh, the smell of her hair setting him ablaze with need of her.

"I have always loved this song," she confided to him as they danced, and he reflexively tightened his grip on her, wanting to hold her forever, wanting to stay in this place, twirling on this dancefloor with her for all the rest of his days. "It always makes me think of you."

The words would not come to him, then. There was no music in his life, without her, no joy, no rapture, no certainty. She had been everything to him once, and in just a few short days she had bowled him over once again, had with her gentle touch and her honey-rich voice reminded him that he was more human than he had ever allowed himself to be. The words would not come, and so he did not speak, choosing instead to lean in close to her and brush a kiss against her temple. She quivered, when his lips caressed her skin, and leaned into his touch.

 _Tonight, the light of love is in your eyes, but will you love me tomorrow?_

"There's something I have to tell you," he said. The moment was delicate, fragile as an eggshell, and he feared that whatever path he chose he must surely shatter it in his hands, those hands that had always seemed too rough, too hard, too large to be trusted with a gift as precious as her heart. Yet still he felt compelled to speak, to share with her the glory of his soul, the damnation of his love.

Ruth saved him from himself, reaching up to cup his cheek in her hand, directing his gaze to her face, her eyes beseeching. For a moment he was terrified, frightened to his very core that she was about to turn from him, to reject him for good and all, to rebuke him for loving a woman he had known so briefly, but she did none of those things. She sighed, and leaned up on her tip toes, drawing him to her with her hand gentle on his skin.

Their lips met, softly, once, twice, three times, fleeting kisses, the kisses of lovers trying to remember how they fit together, recalling the steps of a dance they had not undertaken for so very long. And then it all seemed to click into place; her arms slid around his neck and his arms wrapped around her waist and when their lips met again his tongue surged into her mouth and she whimpered as she gave herself over to the moment, and to him. There in the middle of the darkened pub he held her, tasted her, devoured her, drowned in a sea of her, the blinding brilliance of his passion matched only by her own insatiable need.

How long they stood thus entwined he could not say, but eventually she parted from him, resting her head against his shoulder.

The song continued to play, but Ruth seemed content, there in his arms, and Harry was content to hold her for as long as he could.

"Is this madness, James?" she asked him.

That was a question without answer; he wanted to say _all love is madness_ , but he did not want to appear callous, did not want to send her running from him when she was finally in his arms, where she belonged.

" _Folie à Deux_ ," he muttered, and for once, it seemed he'd gotten right; in his arms Ruth was laughing.

"Perhaps you're right," she told him. "Perhaps we are delusional." She looked up at him through thick eyelashes, and he could restrain himself no longer; he cupped the back of her head, and drew her to him for another kiss, longer and more potent than the last. He could feel himself growing harder, as her hands wandered the length of his spine, as he took a chance and cupped her bum, drawing her against the length of him, wondering if they were either of them delusional enough to try shagging on a table once again. _Not yet,_ he told himself. _Give her time._

"I should go," she breathed, her lips brushing against his own as she spoke. "Maren will worry."

"Maren is asleep," he told her, swallowing her laughter as he plunged his tongue into her mouth once more; she whimpered again, when he caught her lip between his teeth, her hands fisting in his shirt, her body bowing against him, but in the end reason prevailed, and she withdrew herself from his embrace, her chest heaving, her eyes bright and sparkling.

"Close the door behind you, when you leave," she said, trying and failing to sound casual, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress.

"Ruth-"

"Good night, James," she whispered, and then with a twirl of her skirt she turned away from him, her steps sure and unfaltering as her feet carried her off the floor and through the kitchen door, out of his sight. The song had been playing on a loop, throughout their passionate clinch, and it had started up yet again, the sound of the piano shimmering on the air in the wake of her departure. With a sigh Harry retrieved his mobile from the bartop, silencing it at once; the vision of the past he'd conjured faded, and he was left in the merciless present.

He did as she bid him, carefully closing the doors to the dining room before making his way up the stairs to his room.

 _What did you expect?_ He berated himself as he went. _It's been so long, and she's suffered so much. You just have to be patient._ Still, though, it was impossible to keep the smile from his face; though she had pulled away from him, he had tasted the need in her, had seen for himself that he was not the only one ensnared by careless love. That devil called hope had claimed them both.

He did not have long to ponder the events of the evening, however; when he entered his room, he found Samuel Burns sitting on his bed.

"And where the hell have you been?" Burns asked him.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: The end of this chapter is M-rated.**

* * *

 **15 February 1985**

A steady, unrelenting banging noise filled the room, rousing Harry from a deep and rather pleasant sleep into the painful reality of another harsh day. Given the sheer exuberance of the light streaming in from behind the curtains Harry assumed it was late morning, but every inch of his body shrieked in agonized protest when he tried to move. Cursing like a sailor he dragged himself upright, one hand pressed gingerly to the bandages Ruth had so tenderly wrapped around his chest the night before. His knee very nearly buckled when he attempted to stand, and for the first time he began to feel a bit regretful about his decision to make love to Ruth so enthusiastically the night before. However right it may have seemed at the time, he was certainly paying for it now.

The banging did not cease, however; someone was pounding on the door to his room, and no matter how he grumbled, no matter how long it took his battered body to cross the room, his visitor remained unrelenting. Finally Harry swung the door open; there on the other side stood Mikey, pale-faced, covered in dirt, and reeking of rubbish and worse. If Harry had been feeling even marginally more capable he would have grabbed the young man by the collar and drug him into the room, but as it was he could do no more than sigh and retreat to his bed where he collapsed, grimacing.

Mikey made his way inside, closing the door and then leaning back against it. There was nowhere for him to sit; the room contained only the bed, a sidetable, and a small chest of drawers, and Mikey himself was such an imposing figure that he seemed to take up half the available space all by himself.

"You smell like piss," Harry grumbled, running a weary hand across his brow.

"You're not exactly covered in roses yourself, are you?" Mikey fired back in his thick Yorkshire accent.

"You shouldn't be here," Harry told him. They had agreed early on that none of the lads would meet with Harry in his room, the better to avoid rousing suspicions. It wouldn't do for any of them to be caught speaking to one another; one stranger on his own was cause enough for concern but a whole troop of them conversing in low whispers practically screamed "police".

"Oh aye? And where should I go, then? Spent the whole bloody night hiding out in a rubbish heap behind the canal while you've been tucked up safe in your bed. We need to talk, sooner the better. My cover's blown, and you're not far behind."

Harry couldn't blame the lad for the bitterness in his tone. "Go get cleaned up," Harry told him, gesturing towards the en suite. "We can talk after."

Mikey grunted his thanks and ambled off to have his shower, leaving Harry alone with his jumbled thoughts.

They'd taken a gamble, breaking into the Kellys' home the night before, and in all the confusion following his hasty departure from the house Harry had nearly forgotten his original mission. Had Mikey found anything in the house? It seemed that Mikey had likely been identified, and this in turn made Harry's stomach churn with nerves; he didn't know if any of his pursuers had seen his face the night before, and if they had, his mission would have failed. It didn't bear thinking about, returning to London in disgrace while someone else took over the hunt for Patrick Magee, leaving Ruth behind when he'd only just…

 _Christ, what have I done?_ Harry asked himself while remorse rolled over him, thick and choking as a cloud of smoke. Adrenaline and desire had clouded his thoughts, made him impulsive, made him foolish, and now he had damned them both. Damned himself, for he knew that having tasted her he would never again be rid of the need he felt to hold her, to kiss her, to love her; damned her, for he knew now that she was bound to him, that she would bear the brunt of any action taken against him, knew that he would break her heart when he was forced to leave, whether he left on this day or weeks hence. He would _have_ to leave, and in the leaving of her he knew that they must both surely shatter. For long minutes he simply sat, holding his head in his hands, contemplating his many sins and desperately trying to see his way through the maze of uncertainty that lay before his feet.

"That's better," Mikey sighed happily when he finally emerged from the shower. Harry had given him a shirt and trousers to change into, and the lad did appear refreshed, though the time that Harry had spent in silent thought had been more destructive than restorative.

"Tell me what's happened," Harry said. In deference to his broken rib Harry shifted until he was laying flat on his back on the bed, closing his eyes as Mikey began to speak.

"Right, well, first off, you can stop worrying about Ryan Kelly's uncle. It's not Magee, he's just some big dumb Belfast bastard. I saw him in the house last night, sleeping off a drunk in front of the telly. He's in a wheelchair, might be why no one's seen him around."

Harry grunted to show he'd been listening, but inside his thoughts were whirring. Though he knew it was a long shot, a part of him had hoped that he'd find Magee in that house. There would have been some poetic justice in it, he thought, if Ruth's information had led to not only the capture of a wanted fugitive but the downfall of the Kelly clan as well. Alas, nothing in Harry's world was ever so simple.

"Found a couple of guns underneath one of the beds upstairs, and there's a locked safe in the kitchen I'd love to get my hands on, but the boys and their gobshite friends found me before I could get out. They saw my face, Harry," he added gravely. "Ryan and his lot went after you, and Sean and his lot came after me. Did they catch you?"

"Not quite," Harry answered. "Knocked me down, broke a rib or two, but I don't know if they saw my face. I lost them before I came back here, my cover may still be intact."

Mikey did not question this, for he knew as well as Harry that if Ryan Kelly and his friends had known who he was, they would not have hesitated to come to the pub and seek their vengeance. It seemed that for now Harry at least was in the clear, but if Mikey was blown, Harry no longer had eyes and ears on the docks, where he needed them most.

"Damn," Harry muttered, mostly to himself.

"What are we going to do, Harry?" Mikey asked him seriously.

"You're going back to London. Today. The Kellys should all be at work by now. There's a bag under the bed with money and identification for you. Don't go back to your flat. Get down to Ceannt Station, tell Paul you're blown, and get home, quick as you can. I'll ring Gower Street, let Clive know how things stand."

For a moment there was silence, as Mikey shimmied under the bed to retrieve the items Harry had listed out for him. Once the money was in his pocket Mikey hesitated for a moment, staring down at the toes of his shoes.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said in a soft voice.

"It's all right, Mikey. You did a fine job. I'll let you know how it all turns out."

Without another word Mikey departed, leaving Harry alone to his thoughts once more.

The rest of the day passed slowly for Harry; he dragged himself down to a payphone two streets away to apprise Clive of the situation and take the bollocking he knew was coming, and then he retreated to his bed, dozing fitfully and dreaming of Ruth until one day passed into the next.

* * *

 **16 February 1985**

For the second morning in a row, Harry was dragged into wakefulness by a knocking on his door. Where the day before the knocking had been aggressive and insistent, today it was hardly more than a gentle tapping, and somewhere deep in his heart Harry knew who was on the other side of the door before his feet had even touched the floor. After a full day spent in bed most of his physical distress had receded into a manageable sort of ache, and it was with decidedly more enthusiasm that he went to answer the knock this morning.

When he swung the door wide, however, there was no one waiting to greet him. Confused, Harry ventured out into the hall, warily looking from one side to the other. On his left there was no one, just an empty expanse of corridor; when he looked to the right, he caught the briefest glimpse of soft dark hair and swirling blue skirt before the door to room 224 swung closed. Smiling, Harry closed his own door, and ventured down the hall.

She was waiting for him inside, standing anxiously by the window and twisting her hands together, an expression of such overwhelming concern on her face it could best be described as tortuous.

"Good morning," Harry said softly as he leaned back against the closed door, suddenly keenly aware that in his haste to reach her he had not bothered to dress properly; he wore only a pair of loose pajama bottoms and his bandages, his hair rucked up from sleep and his feet bare upon the carpet.

Ruth did not answer him; her eyes raked over him, taking in his disheveled appearance and the jaundiced bruising spreading like some nefarious flood to color the skin surrounding his wound, only just visible along the edges of the bandages. There was fear in her eyes, and doubt, and grief, and Harry wanted nothing more in that moment than to go to her, to hold her, to kiss her lips and lie to her, to tell her everything would be all right.

"I...I think we made a mistake, James," she said finally, and with each word she spoke it seemed to Harry that he could see her crumbling, falling to pieces beneath the weight of her declaration. As quickly as he could manage he crossed the room and took her hand in his own, lifting it up and placing a gentle kiss against her skin.

"Maybe we did," he said quietly. "But I have never made a mistake that felt quite as right as this one."

"I doubt that would be much comfort to your wife," Ruth told him. There was no anger, no cruelty in her voice; her tone carried with it only bitter self-recrimination, and Harry realized quite suddenly that Ruth blamed herself for what they'd done, despite his own rather obvious complicity. This realization, coupled with the rather uncomfortable reminder of Jane, put a damper on Harry's amorous intent; he sighed and squeezed her hand, gazing into her face all the while, watching the play of emotions there and wondering, not for the first time, what the bloody hell he was doing in Galway.

"You might be surprised, she might well be thankful for an excuse to leave me," Harry confessed.

Ruth laughed, a choked, desperate sort of sound that more closely resembled a sob than a chuckle. They had reached a fork in the road, he knew; he could leave her now, could kiss her cheek and wish her well and cause no further damage to her life, to her heart, or he could draw her into his arms, and consign them both to whatever devastation lay ahead. The honorable thing might have been to leave her, but Harry was not a particularly honorable man; he was a spy, a man who lived his life in the moral grey area where right and wrong met and intermingled, and he was a man who knew that joy, however fleeting, was too rare a gift to be squandered. And so he did not do the honorable thing; he wrapped his around her waist, and drew her with him to the edge of the bed. They sat down together, heavily, and he drew her closer still, and for her part Ruth did not fight him, choosing instead to sigh and rest her head against his bare shoulder.

"God forgive me," she murmured.

"It's not you who needs to be forgiven," Harry responded, pressing a gentle kiss against her temple.

Ruth sniffled, just a bit, and turned in his arms, pressing her lips to his pulse point lightly in response. "How are you feeling?" she asked, resting the palm of her hand gently against his bandages. Something in her tone had changed; it seemed to Harry that she had chosen to set aside her doubts for the moment, and he was grateful for it. One day they would have to face it, would have to admit to the stark truth of what they'd done, but for now he much preferred to give himself over to mundane chatter and the calming balm of her presence.

"Not so bad," he lied. And it seemed Ruth knew it; she leaned back slightly, fixing him with that piercing blue gaze that told him all too plainly she had seen through his feeble attempt at subterfuge.

"Really," he protested. "I slept most of the day yesterday, and I'm moving much more easily today. See?" And with that he captured her once more, kissing her once before pulling her back to lie with him against the pillows, sighing happily when she turned in his arms and pressed her body along the length of his uninjured side. Her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder and he wrapped his arm around her, protectively, holding her close while her hand came to rest against his wildly beating heart.

"No one came looking for you, yesterday, so I suppose you got away with it," she said after a time. In truth, they had been still and quiet for just long enough to lull Harry almost into a dose, but the sound of her voice roused him, drew him back to the present. He had forgotten, somehow, just how very much she knew about him and the trouble that followed in his wake.

"I did," he said carefully. He could give her no more information than that; it wouldn't do for her to know that he'd placed an asset on the docks, or that he had lost that asset now. The less she knew, the less culpable she would be in any of his mistakes, the less likely it was that anyone would come looking for her. _The less information she can give away under duress,_ his spy's conscience whispered, but Harry resolutely shut out that voice, trying to listen instead to the steady trilling song of his heart, rejoicing in her nearness.

"Then why are you still so worried?" The softness of her was misleading, Harry knew; she could be strong, and fierce when she needed to, and she saw more than most, saw through to the heart of him, no matter how he tried to hide.

"It's been six weeks, and we're no closer to our goal. Every day that passes we get further from the truth, and closer to danger. And I don't want you caught in the crosshairs."

She bristled, at that; without a word she rose up onto her knees, straddling his hips and staring down at him disapprovingly. Even though he knew he shouldn't have, Harry couldn't help but smile up at her; she was lovely, even in her indignation, and the confidence in her, the brash, intimate way she touched him after one single, lovely encounter in the pub, warmed his heart.

"You said you have a job to do," she murmured, taking his hand in her both of her own, running her fingers gently across his skin and sending shivers running down his spine. "So do it. I can take care of myself."

"I don't doubt that you can," Harry told her, still smiling. The morning sun was streaming in merrily through the tattered blinds on the windows, painting her pale skin with a golden hue, highlighting the shine of her hair and the fierce gleam of those eyes he loved so well. "But I will look after you, as long as I'm here. You won't get rid of me that easily."

He wanted to say more, wanted to talk to her about her stepfather, about her mother, wanted to ask how they were going to make this work, wanted to extract promises from her, that she would be careful, that she would avoid Ryan Kelly at all costs, but she was too beautiful, too present, too warm, too close for him to ignore the urgent demands of his body, swelling slowly beneath the gentle pressure of her weight astride him. Slowly, deliberately Harry pulled his hand from her grasp, and then slid both of his hands from the flare of her hips up the slope of her back, feeling the ripple of her muscles beneath her thin jumper, exerting just enough gentle pressure to bring her skin close enough for him to kiss. Mindful of his injuries she dropped her hands to either side of his head, holding herself suspended above him while he strained to reach her, his lips finally making contact with the smooth column of her throat. When he kissed her she sighed, and shivered, and gave a tentative thrust of her hips; her skirt billowed around her, her bare thighs locked around his waist, only her knickers and his lightweight trousers separating him from her heat.

"You should be wearing tights," he told her between kisses, his hands skimming across her thighs beneath her skirt. "It's cold out."

"You're one to talk," she answered breathlessly. "At least I'm wearing a jumper."

"Are you?" Harry grinned against her skin as he slipped his hands beneath her jumper and tugged it away from her in one smooth, practiced movement. She did not protest, choosing instead to help him free her from it. In his haste on Thursday night Harry had not actually succeeded in removing her bra, had not given himself the opportunity to see her bare breasts, to taste them, and he was determined to rectify his mistake now. As he freed her from it she sighed, and then helped him to toss it away, sitting upright for a moment and smiling bashfully at him as she ran her fingers through her dark hair. As he gazed up at her, taking in the curves of her, drunk on the sight of her beauty, a small, bitter voice spoke in the back of his mind, a niggling question rising to the surface of his euphoria. _How many others have seen what you now see?_ that voice asked, but Harry knew better than to give into that jealous urging. No good could come from asking such a question; he knew the answer was likely _at least one_ , given the confidence, the surety with which she had embraced him on Thursday night, but he did not want to think of that now. Now he only wanted to imagine that she was his, his and only his, for this moment and all the moments to come.

He did not waste time telling her how beautiful she was; though he knew that Ruth had a deep love of words he felt in this moment that his actions would speak more plainly, and so he only touched her, dragging his hands from her hips up over the dip of her waist, the smooth skin of her sides, until he was cupping her breasts in his hands, feeling their weight, the swell of them pressing against his hands as she took a deep breath, her head falling back on her shoulders and a soft, happy sigh sliding past her lips. He brushed his thumbs across her nipples and those soft lips parted in a silent moan, and his desire for her roared ever louder in his ears; gently he directed her towards him, pulling her closer until she was supporting herself on her hands once more, and he could dip his head and capture the peak of her nipple between his lips.

The moan that left her this time was not silent, and he exulted in the sound of it. Ruth had chosen the location of their assignation well; there were no guests staying in any of the rooms on this end of the hall, and what few visitors the pub was playing host to had no doubt already left for the day, out on jaunts to all the must-see tourist locations. There likely was not another soul on this level of the building, but to Harry it seemed as if there were not another soul in the world, as if nothing else existed beyond this room, beyond this bed, beyond the warmth of her skin and the fire burning in her eyes. As lightly as he could he scraped his teeth across her nipple and watched her shiver, felt her grinding herself against him, felt her already hot and wet even through the layers of clothing that separated them.

Harry still wasn't quite match fit, but he was much too proud and much too eager to admit such a thing to her now. She was beautiful, and she was here, with him, willing and pressed close against him, and he would have her lest he perish from yearning alone. He slipped his hands down to the waistband of her skirt, fumbling for a moment before he was forced to growl, "a little help, please?" As he spoke his lips brushed her skin, and she laughed, a light, tinkling bell of a laugh that warmed his heart.

Quite carefully Ruth eased herself off of him, slipping to her feet; though a rosy blush stained her cheeks she did not try to hide from him, baring herself to his hungry gaze as quickly as she could before returning to the bed, and capturing his lips in a searing kiss even as she set about freeing him from his trousers. Though it was her eyes that had first captured his attention, her lips held just as much fascination for him; full and soft, they formed a perfect bow, and the taste of them, the feel of them, the passion they inspired in him left him breathless and desperate for her. And then her hands were on him, tugging his pajamas away from his body, returning to wrap tentatively around his hardness, and he broke from their kiss with a groan of satisfaction. Her hands, too, enchanted him; delicate and small and nearly always cold, those hands spoke of her emotions as eloquently as did her luminous eyes, flickering with passion when she spoke, twisting with nerves when worry overcame her, not hesitating to deliver a slap or a caress, whichever the moment warranted. He loved those hands. _God help me, but I love every piece of her._

As she touched him she watched him, no doubt gauging his response by the expression on his face; the soft smile she gave him told him that she had correctly interpreted his delight as she slid her way back up his body, resting her weight just above his throbbing hardness, gliding her slick folds against him and whimpering softly at the sensation. It was nearly more than Harry could bear; he told himself that when he was well he would do this properly, would take his time with her, but now he feared he could exhibit no such self-restraint. He caught her hips in his hands and she moved with him, following his silent direction until she was hovering above him, one hand wrapped around him, guiding him slowly into her welcoming warmth.

" _Christ,_ Ruth," he swore softly, closing his eyes and fighting the temptation to thrust up into her. His broken ribs limited his movement, and he knew it would be up to her to set the pace, to guide them both from this moment of joining into the bliss that awaited them.

"Good things come to those who wait," she said, gasping as she raised herself up once more, her whole body trembling beneath his hands as he felt the length of him sliding out of her, only to have her repeat the motion, the gentle rocking of her hips and the sheer damning heat of her driving him nearly mad with need. Ruth would not be deterred; though he kneaded her breasts in his hands and whispered gentle encouragements to her she continued, slow, and steady, and each time she descended upon him a new, intoxicating sound of want left her until Harry very nearly forgot the extent of his injuries; it was in his mind to flip her over, to press her back against the pillows and take her hard and fast, to end the delicious torture, but he was prevented by his own infirmities and by her hands that had come to rest against his shoulders, holding him in place while she took her pleasure.

He lost himself, there inside her, lost all sense of time and place and anything beyond her, the sound of her, the sight of her, the smell of her, the feel of her. His heart pounded in his chest, the thrumming of his blood in his veins roaring as loud as the sea in his ears, and he gave himself up to her utterly, watching her transform from the shy, bashful girl he'd first known upon his arrival into something else entirely, a goddess of her own making. She was picking up the pace, the speed of her thrusts increasing as the muscles in her thighs tensed, clenching and unclenching against him, the soft heat of her sex fluttering around him, undulating with each gentle thrust of her hips. Faster and faster she moved, and each time she impaled herself upon him the breath rushed from her lungs in a desperate whimper, and Harry fought to keep his eyes open, to watch her in her glory, to hold off his own release until she had found her own.

The moment of her apotheosis came when Harry's own resolve had reached its breaking point; she slammed herself down against him one final time, her fingers curling hard into his shoulders while her back arched gracefully away from him, a single word he could not understand escaping her lips on a reckless, breathy moan, and though he should have known better, Harry's sense of reason had deserted him, and so with his hands clenched hard around her hips he came with a roar, shooting hot and wet deep inside her trembling heat.

She gasped and shuddered and practically glowed in the aftermath of their tumultuous release, but to her credit she somehow managed to hold keep her weight off his tender ribs. When finally her breathing slowed and the delirium-inducing spasms of her sex subsided she slipped off of him, coming to rest alongside him once more, threading her legs between his own.

"I shouldn't have done that," Harry murmured, kicking himself for being so foolish; she was young and lovely and meant to be free, and he would never forgive himself if a single mistake in the heat of the moment left her with a permanent reminder of him.

"Shut up," she answered drowsily.

"Ruth-"

She grumbled something unintelligible, and reached up blindly to cover his mouth with her hand, very nearly poking him in the eye in the process. He laughed, kissing her palm before lifting her hand from his face.

"I'll shut up," he said.

And though he was blessedly exhausted in the wake of her exuberance, he could not stop himself; he followed the path of her body with the tips of his fingers, dancing across the slope of her breast, tracing the valley between her ribs down over her soft stomach, his fingers threading through the raspy curls at her center until he found the wetness he'd left behind, growling possessively as the need to claim her for his own overcame him, and without further preamble he thrust two fingers deep inside her, his thumb rubbing the little nub of her clit with practiced ease.

"James-" she gasped his name, but whatever she meant to say next was lost as he continued the relentless onslaught, building her up and up until she had no choice but to cling to him, her hips bucking against his hand, her breaths harsh and needy by his ear until she came again. Still he did not stop; he was fascinated by this, the moment immediately following her release, when she had abandoned her every inhibition, when the pleasure he could bring her seemed limitless. What heights could she ascend, given time, given attention? _At least once more,_ he told himself, and though the angle was somewhat off and the muscles in his forearms strained he persisted until she capitulated to the sheer animal force of her climax and very nearly sobbed her release. She caught his wrist, stopping his movement, holding him there inside her, and the need clamouring in his own heart receded as he pressed a kiss against her hair. Lost in the moment, he could not stop himself, and the words left his lips before he could think better of it.

"I love you," he whispered.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: I apologize for the delay. I've been going through some personal upheaval, and was in no condition to write last week. Many thanks to those of you who have reached out to me over the past few days, for both the kindness you have shown me and your enthusiasm for this story.**

* * *

 **17 July 2006 (well, technically, 18 July 2006)**

" _And where the hell have you been?"_

The sight of Samuel Burns's hulking figure lounging on the end of Harry's bed did nothing to comfort him. After the tumultuous events of the last few days Harry had quite been looking forward to collapsing into that bed himself, to closing his eyes and watching the vision of Ruth dancing in the sparkling technicolor reel of his memories until sleep claimed him, untroubled by thoughts of Ryan Kelly and murder and betrayal and John Walsh and Mulvaney's gun problems. The cavalier disregard for his privacy that Ruth had shown upon disturbing him earlier that morning had not bothered him in the least, but Burns's invasion rankled, left Harry feeling wrong-footed and defensive.

Burns had demanded to know where he'd been but, rather like a petulant teenager, Harry was in no mood to to tell him the truth. He had to give some response, however, so he sighed and spoke.

"Out," he said shortly, closing the door behind him with a snap. "What do you want?"

"I've had an interesting day," Burns began. The bearded man rose from the bed, and quietly he and Harry changed places. Harry settled himself on the foot of the bed and set about removing his shoes while Burns leaned back against the door, reminding Harry forcefully of a rather bewildered looking bear. "Met your friend Ryan Kelly."

All traces of irritation left Harry in an instant, to be replaced by a wary sort of interest. Only an hour or so before Kelly had been hassling Ruth, and the thought that Burns might have already found a way to bring the man down was too delicious to pass up. There was nothing Harry wanted more than to see Ryan Kelly held accountable for his crimes, to see him removed as a threat from Ruth's life forever.

"He's not very popular, is he?" Burns continued, running a hand over his russet beard.

"No," Harry agreed. Most of the people he'd met in this city would happily have strung Ryan Kelly up by his toes if they could have managed it, but money and power had provided Kelly with the ultimate means of defense. In that way he was not unlike the politicians who were continual thorns in Harry's side.

"Asked around about that George bloke as well," Burns told him, watching him shrewdly all the while. _He's been spending too much time with John Walsh,_ Harry thought glumly. _He takes just as long to get to the point._

"And what did you find?" Harry asked, trying not to grit his teeth in frustration. For perhaps the thousandth time he was forced to remind himself that Burns was not his agent, this was not his operation, and he was not in charge, much as he might long to be.

"George was well-liked, on the whole. Stuck close to Kelly, but treated people well. A few people told me he was thick as a brick, though, said that's why he died. Too stupid to notice he was walking under a mobile container."

That didn't sit well with Harry, that description of Ruth's husband. He couldn't see it somehow, couldn't see her bound to a man who did not share her intellect, her passion. Ruth had mentioned this to him as well, had told him that people thought George was thick, but she had been insistent that he was practical, too used to working on the docks to make such a foolish mistake. But who should be believe? The woman who'd spent nearly twenty years of her life living with George, trying to convince herself she was happy with him, or the people who'd worked with him, seen him in action every day?

"What do you think?" Harry asked. It wasn't up to him to decide, after all, the manner of George's death and Ryan Kelly's possible involvement in it. Burns would have to be the one to gather the intelligence, to piece the puzzle together.

"I don't know. That's why I did a bit of digging around at the docks. I watched them unloading containers today, and I'll tell you, they were all very safety conscious. All very aware of the procedure. There's bloody signs posted. It doesn't seem like the sort of mistake a veteran would make. And Kelly stinks, that's for certain. He's cruel and he's insecure in his position, even now. Wouldn't put it past him, to take someone out if he thought they were a threat, but he's too much a coward to have done the thing himself. This way, he can blame it all on George, and his hands are clean. Trouble is, we don't have any proof, and it may be too late to find any. Three years is a long time, Sir Harry."

 _Not nearly so long as twenty,_ Harry thought, but he wisely did not voice this thought aloud.

"Did you make any progress on the guns?"

Burns shrugged. "I was posing as an inspector, they're not likely to start unloading illegal freight in front of me, are they? I planted a few bugs, though, and we've got some techies listening in. We should know more in a few days."

 _Then what are you doing here?_ Harry wondered. He had assumed, based on Burns's proprietary attitude and his unexpected presence in Harry's room that the man had news for him, but so far Burns had not told Harry a single thing he did not already know. Though Harry didn't know the man, he rather thought that Burns did not seem the sort to waste time and risk his cover just to have a late night chat.

"I wanted to ask you something," Burns said after a rather uncomfortable moment of silence during which they each eyed the other warily. When it became obvious that Harry was not going to respond, Burns continued. "About this George fellow. His wife owns the pub, like you said. I stopped in for lunch today and spoke to her for a bit. She's a fine looking woman, Sir Harry."

"That's not a question," Harry answered with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Right, well here's my question. She's a fine looking woman, with a fine looking daughter. Daughter's what, about twenty? Twenty-one? Which would mean she was born not too long after you were posted here in the '80s. Now Ryan Kelly hates your guts and you're digging for information on her husband's death. It doesn't take a genius to be suspicious. What's your role in all of this, Sir Harry?"

As Burns spoke Harry felt his stomach drop. Before this moment he had believed himself to be above reproach, beyond suspicion; who besides Kelly himself would even guess the truth of his connection to Ruth? He knew that such confidence had been misguided, to say the least; he practically reeked of desperation, and Maren's age was enough to raise eyebrows. But he did not truly know if the girl was his, and he dearly wished to protect her, to protect Ruth, to shield them both from the darkness of the world in which he operated.

"I met Ruth and Kelly both while I was on operation here," Harry allowed carefully. "Even bumped into George, a time or two. Ruth is a good woman, and she deserves justice. Whatever else you're implying is beneath you. I was married at the time, and Ruth and her daughter both loved George dearly."

Burns sucked his teeth for a moment, his dark eyes wide and disbelieving beneath his bushy eyebrows, but in the end he just shrugged, as if to say _suit yourself._ Harry did not for a moment think that Burns believed him or his deflection, but the man clearly knew when to speak and when to hold his tongue.

"I'd best be off, then. I'll let you know if the bugs turn up anything. Keep your head down."

And with that Burns departed, leaving a very troubled man in his wake.

* * *

Ruth sighed as she slipped through the front door of her little house. Her heart was still pounding in her chest, the last strains of the song echoing in her ears. She had told James the truth; for the last twenty years, whenever she heard that song it brought tears to her eyes, brought with it fond memories of the time she'd spent in his arms. To hear it now, while he was standing in front of her, this man she'd dreamt of for so long finally close enough for her to hold him, was almost more than she could bear. He had been tender, and kind, and he had spoken to her in a voice that echoed through the years, reminding her of who she had been, who she had always wanted to be.

When he held her, her heart sang, lifted in a way it had not done since she was a girl. Life had not been particularly kind to Ruth, and though she did not regret the choices she had made, though she knew that some had borne worse, she also knew that she had grown wary and uncertain. She was not one to take risks, was not much of a romantic, but when he held her, something deep inside her had cried out for more, had nearly wept to feel his hands gentle on her skin once more. Ruth felt as if her heart were some sort of slumbering beast, wakened by the sound of James's voice, by the warmth of his body wrapped around her own, and though she knew it was madness, to kiss him, to hold him, to dance with him in the darkness, she had given into her own need for him, however briefly.

 _This can't go on,_ Ruth told herself sternly, bustling into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. Soon enough James would have to leave, and Ruth feared she was not strong enough to endure such heartbreak again.

 _It's too late,_ a little voice seemed to whisper in the back of her mind, and though Ruth did her best to ignore it, she knew, somewhere in the deepest reaches of her heart, that she would be devastated when he left, regardless of whether or not she kissed him, held him, slept with him again. Her heart was bound to his, she knew, not just by Maren - who might not have been his child at all - but by a thin cord of understanding, a chain forged of hope and love and lust and a thousand other emotions she could not name. Though she tried valiantly to remind herself that she hardly knew him now, when he spoke to her she felt as if she were listening to her oldest friend, to the other half of her soul.

Ruth was roused from her quiet reflections by a clatter coming from upstairs. Though the house was small and rather cramped it did boast two floors, but the second contained only three bedrooms and one miserably tiny bathroom. A quick glance at the clock told her it was now after 2:00 a.m., and she had sent Maren home hours before. Surely her daughter ought to be asleep by now?

As quickly as she could Ruth made her way upstairs, avoiding the squeaky third step and holding her breath all the while, her heart pounding madly in her chest, from fear now, rather than desire. She paused for a moment on the landing, listening hard; the doorway to the spare room was open, and the room behind was lost in darkness. Her bedroom door and Maren's as well were both closed; for a frantic moment she was convinced that someone else was here, that something terrible was about to happen, but then she heard a thumping sort of noise and a very feminine sort of giggle coming from her daughter's room, and her vision went red with rage.

Ruth was not a fool, and she was not a prude, though she had been accused on more than one occasion of being _repressed_. She was all too aware that her daughter was a beautiful girl, and fully grown besides; it stood to reason that at some point she might come home to such a scene as this. But still, Ruth was furious; Maren had assured her mother she was going home to sleep, but it was now patently obvious that she had lied. That stung, a bit, that betrayal; before now, Maren had trusted Ruth with everything, had shared her every secret with a mother. Coupled with that feeling of betrayal, of loss, was something more insidious; if Maren had brought a boy home, there was only one contender as far as Ruth was aware - Connor bloody Kelly. The thought of a Kelly spending the night in her home filled Ruth with righteous anger, as well as fear. _Dear God, why did it have to be a Kelly?_ she asked herself, not for the first time.

But what to do now? Ruth had no interest in seeing her daughter, her darling girl, wrapped around that strapping young lad, particularly not now, not after the night she'd had, quarreling with Ryan and dancing with James. It was too bloody much. But she also could not bear the indignity of marching off to her bed while she knew that something was afoot, could not bear the thought of what Ryan might say should he ever learn where his son had spent the night. And so, though such direct confrontation went in contradiction to Ruth's very nature, she took a deep breath, and approached her daughter's room, knocking smartly upon the door.

"Maren," she called. "I need to speak with you."

She heard a distinctly masculine voice utter the word _shit,_ and then there came much rustling and whispering, followed by the tell-tale sound of the window opening.

 _Oh for god's sake,_ Ruth thought, all but stomping her foot in frustration.

"You have ten seconds to open this door, or else I'll open it for you."

It only took about five seconds, in the end; Maren swung the door open, wearing a bedsheet and an outraged expression, her dark hair wild and mussed, the pale blue curtains fluttering around the open window on the wall behind her. _Oh, my love, what have you done?_ Ruth thought sadly.

"What is it?" Maren demanded, trying and failing to look innocent.

Ruth reached out and caught her daughter by the arm, dragging her out of the room and down the stairs despite her protests.

"It's time for us to have a little chat," she said grimly.


	24. Chapter 24

**Still early morning, 18 July 2006**

Ruth had to wonder at the wisdom of this, sitting her daughter down for a chat at the kitchen table when Maren was dressed in nothing more than a bedsheet and a mutinous expression. She didn't dare send the girl back upstairs to dress, however; no, it was better to go ahead and get on with it, now, before Maren turned tail and ran. A locked door between them would not serve Ruth's purpose.

She set about making a cup of tea for Maren while her own lay forgotten on the worktop. As she went through the familiar motions her mind whirred, a thousand chaotic thoughts swirling round and round. There were so many things she wanted to say, but she had no notion of where to begin, which truths she could divulge and which secrets she needed to guard. That Ruth had slept with Ryan Kelly once, that she feared he was responsible for George's death, that he knew full well Maren might not be George's daughter at all; before this night, Ruth had hoped to shield Maren from each of those bitter truths, from the hardness of the world beyond the four walls of their little house. Now, though, Ruth wasn't so sure. Maren was playing with fire, dallying with Connor Kelly; if word ever got back to Ryan, that Connor had been in her house, Ruth knew there would be hell to pay.

Once the tea was ready, Ruth squared her shoulders and joined Maren at the table.

"We weren't doing anything wrong," Maren grumbled, her eyes fixed firmly on the cup of tea before her.

 _If you weren't doing anything wrong, why did he climb out the window, then?_ Ruth wondered. She did not give voice to the thought; it wouldn't do to antagonize Maren, to put her on the defensive. Over the last twenty years Maren and Ruth had got on remarkably well. Their fights were few and far between, as they were each of them rather self-sufficient and understanding of the other's need for privacy. Ruth had no intention of changing this now; she couldn't bear the thought of what might happen, should Maren lose faith in her, should she cease to view her mother as someone she could trust with her every secret.

But they had to talk about this. Maren had to see sense - it was madness, thinking that she could somehow take up with the son and avoid the father's wrath. From Ruth's perspective, there was only one clear choice; Maren needed to stop this, now, before her heart was broken, before the delicate house of cards in which they lived crumbled into nothingness around them. The thought that Maren should be so unlucky in love galled Ruth, truly it did; she knew what it was, to fall so hard for the wrong person, to have her dreams crushed beneath the bootheel of cruel fate. No, better that Maren set aside this infatuation now, before she lost herself completely.

"Connor's a fine lad," Ruth said at last. She was speaking slowly, trying so hard to be gentle, to be calm, to be understanding. On top of the unpleasantness that was dealing with the Kelly clan, Ruth was also finding it rather hard to accept that her daughter, her darling little girl, was old enough to be rolling around beneath the bedsheets with a boy. It was an uncomfortable thought, one that sat heavily in her chest. Oh, Ruth had always known this day would come; by the time she was Maren's age, Ruth had done her fair share of rolling around with questionable partners, and she knew that she had no right to judge her daughter for doing the same. But every time Ruth looked at Maren she saw, not the beautiful young lady her daughter had become, but the little girl she had been, with scabs on her knees and her hair all in a tangle, running through the grass gleefully chasing after a football or crawling into her mother's lap for a cuddle. _When did she grow up?_ Ruth wondered. _When did I get so bloody old?_

Maren was looking at her curiously; clearly she had been expecting more anger, more righteous indignation from her mother, and Ruth's rather calm opening salvo appeared to have thrown her somewhat.

"If he were anyone else, Maren, I'd tell you to invite him round for tea," Ruth continued. Maren's face darkened at once, and her gaze retreated back to her teacup. This wasn't the first time Ruth had expressed her disapproval of Connor's family, and it seemed that Maren thought she was in for just another homily on the failings of Connor's father. She was wrong, though; there were many things Ruth had yet to tell her, and tonight, some of those secrets were coming to light.

"You know who his father is, Maren. You know we don't get on. But I don't think you understand how serious the situation is."

It was the wrong thing to say; as ever, Maren bristled at the implication that she was too young, too foolish to fully understand the situation.

"It's not Ryan I care about, I don't see why it matters that Connor's dad is a prick," she protested.

"That's why I'm telling you now," Ruth responded evenly, refusing to raise her voice, refusing to be drawn into an argument. "You know Mr. Harrison, the writer?"

There was no help for it, no way Ruth could see to explain just how vicious, just how dangerous Ryan was without mentioning James. His name had reignited Maren's curiosity, Ruth saw; Ruth knew that Maren still had questions, about why James had come to their home, what he was doing back in Galway, and while the answers to those questions were tantalizing indeed, Ruth was determined to share only the bare minimum of details, to spare herself and Maren both the embarrassment of discussing Ruth's past sexual exploits.

"When he came here the first time, all those years ago, Ryan Kelly broke two of his ribs with a brick. Ryan Kelly's not just a prick, love, he's dangerous. Did you ever wonder why Connor's grandad was in prison? He stabbed James in the stomach, and while the police were investigating him for that they found out that he was wanted for murder back in Belfast. I know Connor is a good boy, but you can't go getting mixed up with people like that. I don't want to see you get hurt."

While she listened to this litany of the Kellys' misdeeds Maren's eyes had gone with fear, and across the table Ruth could see that her daughter was trying very hard not to cry. There weren't many people left who knew what had befallen the elder Connor Kelly, and Ryan was sufficiently threatening to dissuade those who _did_ know from sharing the gossip. Ruth knew, though. Ruth had, rather clumsily, stitched James's wound herself, that night he came stumbling back to the pub bleeding and muttering about _that damn Irish bastard._ It all happened only a few days before he left her; she could still see the angry red laceration marring his skin, could still feel the way her heart had nearly shattered at the thought that someone could hurt him so cruelly. James had called his people, who in turn had alerted the police, setting into motion the events that would send Connor Kelly to prison where he belonged, and cement Ryan Kelly's hatred for James and everyone who had ever spoken kindly to him, Ruth most of all.

"But Connor's not like that," Maren said in a voice thick with unshed tears.

"I know, love," Ruth told her gently, reaching across the table to give her daughter's hand a little squeeze. "I know he's not. But his father hates me, and he was always so cruel to your father. If he finds out about you and Connor, it'll go badly for you both. Maybe one day, things will be different," she added, unable to deny Maren some shred of hope to cling to, "but right now, you'd do well to steer clear of them. All of them."

Maren began to cry in earnest, her trembling hands wrapped around her mug, and Ruth watched, helpless to ease her daughter's aching heart. Maybe one day things _would_ be different, she thought. Maybe James would find some way to bring Ryan down, to remove him from all their lives, for good. Even Connor would be better served without his father there to constantly curse and harangue him. _Please, James,_ she thought. _Please, find a way._

"It isn't fair," Maren choked out between gulping sobs. Ruth could bear it no longer; she rose from her chair and crossed to Maren's side, wrapping her arms around the girl and holding her while she cried. No, it wasn't bloody fair. Connor Kelly really was a nice young man, Ruth knew, and on his own, he made a fine match for Maren. But the truth could not be denied, and Ruth would not be swayed in this. Maren had to stay away from him, for all their sakes. For several long minutes Maren simply wept, but indulging in histrionics had never really been her style; she pulled herself under control quite quickly, and when her shoulders stopped shaking Ruth finally released her, retreating to her chair and dropping into it with a weary sigh. It was getting on towards 3:00 a.m., and Ruth was bloody tired. She had four hours left in which to sleep, and then she'd need to return to the pub, to open the doors and make the coffee and greet the start of a new day. _I'm too old for this,_ she thought sadly. She'd just turned 42, but some days Ruth felt positively ancient.

"I know it's not, love. I know."

There was nothing more she could say on the subject.

* * *

Once her tears had run their course, Maren gathered what little remained of her dignity and trundled back up the stairs, collapsing on her bed and burying her head in a pillow that still smelled faintly of Connor's cologne. Only an hour before she'd been so bloody _happy_ , wrapped up in Connor's arms, convinced they had the whole night before them. Though her mother tried to be discreet, Maren knew that most Monday nights she had the house to herself, as her mother slipped out to spend the evening God only knew where. Maren had her suspicions, as to where it was Ruth disappeared to on those Monday nights, as to whose bed she was keeping warm, but she kept those suspicions to herself. Her mother's sex life was not something she ever wanted to consider, even for a moment.

But fate had not been on her side, and the wonderful night she'd planned with Connor had come to a sudden, terrible end. It was mortifying, to be discovered like that by her mother, to help Connor clamber from the window as if they were guilty teenagers, but she knew her mother would never approve of him. Before this night, though, Maren had never quite realized the depth of her mother's hatred for Ryan Kelly, or its source.

 _What does it matter if Connor's grandad is a murderer? It's not Connor's fault,_ she thought petulantly, furiously wiping away an errant tear. Though she was angry, though she was hurt, though she was deeply embarrassed, there was a very small, very rational part of Maren's heart that knew her mother was right. There was no escaping the fact that Ryan Kelly was a bad man, and there was no way to predict what he might do, should he discover what Maren and Connor had got up to. Her mother was right, as ever; the sensible thing to do would be avoid all the Kelly men in the future, and pray that Ryan would be struck by lightning or drowned in the bay or something equally catastrophic, that he would be removed as an obstacle for good and all. Until then, though, he was a threat too great to be ignored.

 _Ryan Kelly broke two of his ribs with a brick._

The words echoed through Maren's mind, bringing with them a whole host of questions. What the hell had Mr. Harrison done, Maren wondered, to elicit such a reaction from Ryan Kelly? _Who_ was he, anyway, and what the hell was he doing, wandering into the pub like he owned the place, mooning after Ruth and inviting himself round for tea?

That made Maren suspicious, as well. Though she had no doubt that her mother had not been entirely alone in the years since her father's death, Maren had never once seen her entertain a guest at home, not even a friend. Ruth's friends came to see her at the pub, sitting at the bar and drinking and laughing with her until closing time. The house was sacrosanct, a place for just the two of them - until tonight, that was. Though Maren was suitably ashamed, for having violated that particular unspoken edict herself, she couldn't help but wonder why her mother had done the same. Why Mr. Harrison? He wasn't the most handsome of men; he was a bit on the heavy side, and he always looked tired. There was something dangerous about him, too, something in the way he carried his broad shoulders, something in the smoothness of his deep voice, something in the way he'd squared his shoulders and gone toe to toe with Ryan Kelly that scared Maren deeply. No, he was not at all the sort of person her mother usually associated with. Yet he had come into their home, had defended Maren, and the grievances against him were the first Ruth had listed when giving her explanation of Ryan Kelly's faults.

As she lay there in bed, her tears slowly drying, her heart stuttering back into its normal rhythm, an idea came to Maren. Mr. Harrison had written a book, hadn't he? All those years before he had come to Galway with the purpose of writing a novel, and Ruth had said, just the other day, that she kept a copy on the bookshelf. Perhaps some of the answers Maren sought would be contained therein.

 _It wouldn't hurt to look,_ she told herself. Her mother had gone up to bed; Maren had heard her puttering around, and now there was only silence across the hall. As quietly as she could Maren slipped out of bed, tugging on a bathrobe as she went; she had no intention of being caught in the nude again. Carefully she tiptoed across the landing and down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky third step as she went, and praying that her mother was sound asleep.

Finding the book presented a problem in itself; the downstairs of their little house was full to bursting with books, the shelves groaning beneath the weight of them, piled two and three deep in places. But Maren knew the book was here somewhere; somehow, she just _knew_ that her mother had been telling the truth, about having purchased a copy. It was just the sort of thing she would do. Maren dug in, trailing her fingertips along the spines of the books, feeling their familiar bumps and ridges beneath her hands. Much like her mother, Maren was an avid reader, but their tastes varied so wildly, and there was no rhyme or reason to the organization of the books in their home. Magical realism and autobiographies and romance novels and historical anthologies all jockeyed for space, and they offered no assistance.

Finally, after a full twenty minutes of searching, Maren found it. _Ghosts of Galway,_ written by one James Harrison. She pulled it down from the shelf and retreated to the settee, cradling the book in her hands as if it were a bomb. The cover gave nothing away, and so Maren opened it, flipping to the first page, which bore a brief note from the author.

 _This book is a labor of love, and would never have seen the light of day were it not for the help of many generous souls I met during my travels in Ireland. There are too many to name, so I offer only my sincerest thanks to the entire city of Galway, which left its mark on me, in more ways than one._

Maren stopped reading for a moment, thinking of her mother's words; _he stabbed James in the stomach._ Was this Mr. Harrison being funny, then, quietly referencing the scars he bore as a result of his time in Galway? She read on -

 _There is one person, though, to whom I am forever indebted. I would be remiss were I not to offer my gratitude to a dear friend, one who welcomed me, comforted me, and reminded me that life is for the living. To this friend, ever true, I say do not shed a tear, when you think of our parting. Remember with joy the time we spent together; know that the memories we keep are a lasting treasure, not just a moment's pleasure. You are forever in my heart; I am changed, for having known you. I hope that life treats you kindly, and that you will look back on me with fondness in your heart. Ever yours, James._

Maren read it three times, her heart pounding madly in her chest. _To this friend, ever true, I say do not shed a tear…_ The words were stilted and strange, and as she read them again, she became convinced that they were meant as a sort of a code, a secret message, echoing out across the years. And Maren was fairly certain she knew what they meant.

 _Ruth_ meant friend, Maren knew. And when she read the line again, she knew, somewhere in her heart, that it was Ruth Evershed Mr. Harrison had been speaking to.

Something else about the message struck her as strange, though. _Know that the memories we keeping are a lasting treasure, not just a moment's pleasure._

Maren had heard those words before. She couldn't say quite where; she closed the book and leaned her head back against the sofa cushions, thinking hard, desperately trying to piece it together. _A lasting treasure...a moment's pleasure…_

And then it clicked. Maren had a vision, almost, a memory so strong she could almost see it dancing in front of her eyes. One night, not long after her father died, Maren had woken late and made her way into the kitchen, intent on making a cup of tea and taking it back up to bed with her. She'd never made it that far, however; she'd stopped at the foot of the stairs, mortified at having discovered her mother in the midst of what appeared to be a bit of a breakdown. Ruth had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, her head in her hands, weeping. All around her papers littered the floor in an untidy sea; bills, no doubt. Those months after her father's death had been difficult, Maren knew; Ruth nearly had to sell the pub to pay their debts, though she fought tooth and nail to keep it. That night, Maren had watched her mother crying, and all the while in the background the radio was playing softly.

 _Is this a lasting treasure  
Or just a moment's pleasure  
Can I believe the magic of your sighs  
Will you still love me tomorrow_

Maren nearly gasped aloud. That had been no message of thanks, hastily tacked onto Mr. Harrison's book. It was a love letter, plain and simple. A letter to her mother.

Moving on autopilot Maren returned the book to the shelf and made her way back upstairs, her thoughts spinning madly in her mind. Her mother had had an affair with Mr. Harrison; _oh God,_ Maren thought, feeling faintly ill, _was that before or after she met Da?_ Was that why Ryan Kelly hated her so much? Maren wondered. It would certainly explain some things.

All the rest of that long night Maren lay awake, uncomfortable thoughts pricking at her like tiny needles, resentment and fear growing deep in her gut. Why should she have to be the good girl, do the right thing and deny herself this chance at love, when her mother had not done the same? It wasn't fair, and Maren had never been one to let an injustice stand.


	25. Chapter 25

**16 February 1985**

" _I love you," he whispered._

Beside him Ruth was trembling, still riding the wave of her orgasm, one hand wrapped tightly around his wrist, the other clutching his forearm. Her legs tangled with his own, soft and warm, the bare skin of her chest brushing against his side with every ragged breath she took, her tender heat still fluttering and grasping at his fingers, still buried inside her. The moment he spoke the words he knew that he had made a critical error, had forced her into an untenable position, and though he deeply regretted it he knew for a certainty that he had spoken the absolute truth. He loved her, this girl much too young and much too lovely to be so burdened with heart of a surly spy like him. He loved her smile, and the sound of her voice, loved her hands and the softness of her eyes, loved the depth of her intellect and the stunning brilliance of her soul. He loved her resilience and her hesitance, loved her stubbornness and her pride. He loved every piece of her, but there was a small gold ring tucked into the inner pocket of his rucksack that whispered to him even now, reminded him that she was not his to love. Harry was bound to another, he knew, no matter how much his wife might resent him, no matter how convinced he might be that his marriage was over in all but name. And Ruth knew it, as well.

Slowly she calmed, and as she did she drew away from him, gently removing his hand, resting it against his chest so that his own sex-slicked fingers pressed against the furious pounding his heart. She rolled to the side, taking a deep, tremulous breath. Harry watched her, the graceful curve of her spine, her soft, dark hair spilling down over her shoulders, a river in which he longed to drown himself. The dip above her buttocks called to him, the smattering of freckles there begging for the touch of his hand, but he felt the tension in her, and resisted the siren song of her body.

"You shouldn't say things like that, James," she admonished him.

"Maybe not," he agreed dejectedly. "But it's true, just the same."

She turned to him, watching him over the slope of one slender shoulder, her eyes huge and bright in the late morning sunlight.

"You hardly know me," she said. There was no accusation, no vitriol in her voice; if anything, she sounded confused, as if she could not understand how he had come to love her, as if she could not for a moment believe that such a thing were possible. Harry wanted to laugh aloud at the sheer improbability of this; everything about her had captivated him, enraptured him. It was Harry himself who was lacking, Harry who could not understand how he had come to be in this place, lying in this bed with this beautiful girl beside him.

"I know enough," he told her gently.

"This was a bad idea." Carefully she rose and began to gather up her clothes, staunchly refusing to look at him.

"Ruth, please," he begged her, casting his legs over the side of the bed, his feet bare on the floorboards and his forearms resting gently on his knees. His cock was still damp from having been inside her, and the sight of her shimmying back into her knickers was nearly enough to bring him back to full hardness once again. "Stay a little while. Talk to me."

"I'm meant to be cleaning in here," she said shortly, slipping her bra back into place. "David will know if the work's not done and I'll catch hell for it. I need to change the sheets, at the very least." A delicate blush stained her cheeks at her own words, but the sight of it did nothing to warm Harry's heart. It was shame, not desire, that made her flush so crimson, and his heart ached to see it.

"David hasn't come up here in years, he told me so himself," Harry protested, reaching out to take her by the hand. Ruth would not be deterred, however; she drew her hand away, shaking her head sadly.

"Please, James-"

"I know I shouldn't have said it. I know how it sounds. But please, Ruth, _look at me."_

Perhaps it was the pleading note in his voice, perhaps it was her own desire, perhaps it was no more than happenstance; whatever the cause, she looked at him then, blue eyes huge and round and dazzling in her sorrow.

"Yes, I have a wife," he said slowly, hoping against hope that she would listen, hear him out, give him a chance to say all the words that had been written upon his heart from the moment he first met her. "But - "

"There is no _but_ , James," Ruth told him. "You'll tell me you don't love her, that she doesn't love you, and when this is done you'll go home to her, where you belong."

"Maybe so," he sighed, running a hand through his unruly blonde curls. "But wherever I go, my heart will stay here, with you."

He could think of nothing else to say. There were no words that would convince her, no flowery speech that would not seem trite, contrived to keep her in his bed for as long as he was here, no more than a companion to stave off the lonely hours of the night. He knew how things must appear to her, how very cliched it must have seemed, and so he did not try to argue his case any further. He barely understood it himself, and he had been too long in the world not to know that men often took advantage of pretty young girls, that Ruth would have been warned often, and at length, to stay far away from men like him. He had tried to show her, with his hands, his lips, his tongue, just how very much she meant to him, and if that was not enough no words would sway her.

She seemed touched by his assurances, however; she took a breath, opened her mouth as if to speak, and then sighed in resignation, closing the space between them in a few short steps. She reached out and cradled his face in her hands, her touch gentle on his skin. He gazed up at her, in awe and desperate need, his eyes focused with laser-like intensity upon her face. _Do you see me, Ruth?_ he wondered. If anyone could look into his eyes and read his very soul, he knew it would be her.

"Your heart will be safe here with me," she told him softly. "I will keep it, for as long as I can, but don't ask anything more of me, James. Don't make promises you don't intend to keep."

It seemed a miraculous gift, that she should say such a thing to him now, when moments before she had been on the cusp of leaving him altogether. Harry knew that he might never truly understand her, the labyrinthine twists and turns of her mind, the thousands of unspoken thoughts that swirled within her with each passing second. He might never be sure what it was that changed her mind, might never know if it was love that made her speak, or desire, or a simple willingness to make him happy. He might not ever know, but he was grateful for it, grateful that she seemed to understand that he could offer her no more than a few snatched moments of peace, grateful that she seemed to accept this.

Harry reached out and caught her by the hips, pulled her towards him until she came to rest, sitting across his knees, her arms slung over his shoulders and her face dangerously close to his own.

"I won't," he murmured, wondering if that in itself was a promise he might break some day soon. Before his doubts could consume him utterly he leaned in, and captured her lips in a searing kiss.

* * *

Eventually Harry untangled himself from Ruth, and left her to finish her work in peace. He ambled downstairs, thinking that a pub lunch might hit the spot. In the dining room David Shaw was, as ever, behind the bar, leaning on his elbows and talking quietly to Connor Kelly.

Harry's heart sank, when he saw the paterfamilias of the Kelly clan sitting in his shirtsleeves on a bar stool. In fact, he very nearly turned tail and ran, but his pride would not allow him such an undignified departure. Besides, he knew how it would look, should he refuse to come near the man. There was no telling what Connor Kelly knew, about his boys interrupting Harry and Mikey in the act of breaking into their home, and it would not do to arouse suspicions. Better to remain calm and cool, collected and apparently oblivious. So Harry squared his shoulders and approached the bar with all the confidence of a man facing the gallows.

"Mr. Shaw," he said pleasantly as he took a seat at the bar, inclining his head towards the proprietor in greeting.

Shaw looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. The look Kelly gave him, though, was thoughtful, appraising, assessing, and Harry liked it not one bit.

"You're that writer, aren't you?" Kelly asked him once he'd given his order to Shaw and Shaw had shuffled off to the kitchen.

This marked the first time that Connor Kelly had instigated a conversation with him, and Harry's stomach clenched, a mixture of nerves and adrenaline coursing through his veins. Though they had established that Kelly wasn't hiding their man in his house, there was still every chance that he knew where Magee might be found, and Harry was determined to make the most of this opportunity.

"I am," he said with a little smile, trying to keep his body language open, trying to infuse the right amount of pride into his voice.

"The one who brawled with our Ryan?" Kelly continued.

The sharp taste of fear flooded Harry's mouth as he watched Kelly's dark, angry eyes, but he kept his voice level.

"I am sorry, about that business in the carpark," he said carefully. "I saw the boys gathered around Ruth, and I thought they were going to hurt her. I was...rash. Ruth told me what had happened after they'd left. I regret the whole incident, truly," he lied.

Kelly just laughed, a harsh, resentful sound that sent a chill down Harry's spine. "No, don't apologize. Serves him right. I told him to stay away from that slag."

At the word _slag_ Harry bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself saying something he might truly regret; he finally had the opportunity to talk to Connor Kelly man-to-man, and it wouldn't do to ruin it by jumping to Ruth's defense. Or punching the man square on the jaw.

"Well, tell him I'm sorry, anyway. Didn't mean to hurt him, really."

Connor reached out and clapped him on the back, no doubt about to launch into some boys-will-be-boys nonsense of a speech, but Harry winced at the contact, his whole body still tender from Ryan's attack and the time he'd spent in Ruth's arms, and his companion's eyes flashed, beady and watchful.

"You all right there?"

"I've been hiking, the last few days," Harry lied easily. "I'm not used to it. Think I might have thrown out my back."

"Hiking will do that to you," Kelly said slowly, returning his attentions back to his own food. "Make you feel like you've been hit by a ton of bricks."

 _Shit._

How much did he know? Harry wondered. Was it just an expression, or was it something else, a warning, a threat? Harry wasn't sure, and Shaw chose that moment to reappear, bringing with him a plate of food for Harry. Harry thanked him before tucking into his food, watching Connor Kelly out of the corner of his eye, but the man seemed to have forgotten about him entirely, launching into a lengthy, nigh-on incomprehensible conversation with Shaw. For the rest of the meal Kelly ignored him, finally getting up to leave just as Harry was finishing. Though he bid Shaw a fond farewell, Connor Kelly did not look Harry's way again, leaving him confused and concerned and stewing in his own doubts. Whatever the man's intentions, Harry did not trust him, and he keenly felt the need to wrap up his business in Galway before more harm befell him.


	26. Chapter 26

**16 February 1985**

Ruth peeled the sheets from the bed, taking care to keep the stains contained, trying not to think too hard about how those stains had come to be there, about the rather reckless things she'd done in this room, beneath James's talented hands. He had offered to stay and help her with the clean up, but she had sent him on his way with a kiss, partly because she was certain he would be more hindrance than help, and partly because she desperately needed a few minutes to herself, to think, to come up with a plan. While in his presence she found herself gripped by a foolhardy sort of madness, and she needed the solitude to order her thoughts.

She wasn't entirely sure that she believed him, when he told her that he loved her, and she wasn't entirely sure that it mattered. Oh, he had seemed sincere enough, whispering the words into her hair while they lay naked with his fingers still curled inside her, but Ruth knew enough about people to know that sincerity did not always equal truth. He might well have meant the words at the moment he spoke them, but once that moment passed, once the reality of their lives came crashing back again, she was certain he would forget them almost immediately. What troubled her more than her doubts as regarded the depths of his feelings was her certainty regarding the extent of her own.

Despite her attempts to distance herself from him, despite her attempts to convince herself that he would bring her nothing but trouble and heartache, Ruth had fallen, rather madly, under his spell. And why shouldn't she? He was older, attractive, just a little bit dangerous, well-traveled, well-spoken, protective without being controlling, and an absolutely phenomenal lover. What was not to love, about such a man? That dizzy, heart-stopping, butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling he gave her left her breathless for more, and though her head told her to run, her heart cried out for him. She had very nearly done it, very nearly drawn herself out of his arms and back from the brink of disaster, but then he had spoken quietly of his heart, and she had been utterly, completely lost to him. _This is all he can give you,_ she had told herself as he pulled her forward to rest across his knees; _just a few days, a few weeks, in which to cradle his heart, to love him well. Take what you can get, and don't try to keep him here, and all will be well._

It had to be enough, she told herself. The thought of losing out on him, on the love he offered her without hesitation, was unbearable. Though she knew he could not stay, she told herself that this something, however brief, would be better than nothing. There had been too little love in her life, too many times when she had denied herself. Just this once, Ruth was determined to be selfish. Yes, he had a wife waiting for him back home, but if Ruth did not try to keep him from her, then really, what harm was there in spending a few stolen hours wrapped in his arms?

 _You know exactly what sort of harm,_ she thought bleakly as she piled the spoiled linens at the foot of the bed and set about laying down fresh sheets. She knew that it was wrong, knew that it was folly, but still she continued to talk herself into it, striving to find some rationale, some way to lessen the blow, to find justification, and ease her concerns about adultery and the damage done to James's marriage. In truth, she knew that she would continue to see him whenever she could manage, would continue to fall into his arms at every opportunity, for no reason other than that she wanted to. But as she went through the motions of her routine she made one promise to herself; no matter how great her need, her love, her desire for him, no matter how many times he whispered those words she so longed to hear, she would never tell him that she loved him. Not because she didn't, but because she feared the ramifications, should he ever receive such validation. The way she saw it, he was only hers on loan, and it would be so much easier to return him to his rightful place, whenever that time came, if she pretended, however poorly, that she was reconciled to the loss of him.

 _This has to be enough._

* * *

The task Ruth hated most, when it came to working in the pub, was hauling the rubbish out to its final resting place in the back of the carpark. The bags were heavy, they stank, and the long walk through the darkness always left her unsettled. That night James had disturbed Ryan and his goons was not the first time the boys had given her trouble, and each time she set out on her little journey her heart pounded in her chest as she wondered what fresh hell awaited her, there in the dark. Most nights there was no trouble at all, but there had been trouble enough to leave her apprehensive. David thought she was being ridiculous, of course; he told her all the time that she needed to toughen up, that she needed thicker skin, that the world did no favors for the weak. David also drank too much and swore too much and passed out on the sofa more nights than he made it to his bed, and he had also raised a son whose only accomplishment to date was getting roaring drunk and pissing off the roof of the pub, so Ruth did not put much stock in his advice. When David and Elizabeth first wed, when Ruth and her mother had moved into the little cottage, crammed in alongside Peter and David, her mother had defended her for a time, saying there was nothing wrong with a girl who preferred books to people, but as Ruth grew older and it became apparent that none of the local boys - at least, none of the right ones - had any interest in her, her mother had despaired of her ever making her way in the world, and allowed David's rebukes to go unchecked. These days Elizabeth hardly spoke to her daughter at all, just stared at her through wide, sad eyes as blue as Ruth's own, and took to her bed in the middle of the day more often than not, drawing the shades and complaining of migraines. Ruth privately thought that it was disappointment, not depression, that kept Elizabeth so downtrodden, but no one asked for her opinion, and so she did not give it.

David had been furious, when rumours of Ruth's lackluster tryst with Ryan Kelly began to spread - egged on by the gobshite himself - not because he did not approve of Ryan, but because now everyone knew that his stepdaughter had gone to bed with a boy before she was married. It embarrassed him, though he never would have used that word, wounded his pride. He felt Ruth's shame more keenly than she did herself; appearances mattered, to a man like David Shaw. The day David first found out, he was so angry he very nearly struck her; it was only Peter, stumbling into the midst of the fray, drunk and ungainly with eyes as big and confused as a deer's, that stayed his hand. His attention had been averted, and Ruth had fled, and when he saw her the next day, he had only sighed, and pointed angrily to the stairs, telling her without words that she was to spend her time cleaning, out of his line of sight. Though several years had passed since that awful time, David had never forgiven her, and he often watched her movements like a hawk, as if he feared she would drop her knickers in the middle of the pub and offer to shag anyone who was willing. That was no exaggeration; he'd said as much to her, once, when he was drunk and she was helping him stumble home.

This attitude had always baffled Ruth; Peter had had more than his fair share of dalliances, and David had never commented on it. Beyond that, he had never shown much interest or regard for her, and she had been shocked when he had, in the height of his fury, referred to her as _my daughter_. David was not her father, and she had never thought of him as such, never equated him with the gentle man she could only barely remember now, but she had been touched, to a certain extent, to learn that he regarded her as his own flesh and blood. That this discovery should come in the very midst of a diatribe about her shortcomings stung her deeply, and so she had tried, very hard, to keep her head down, not to upset him. She would have given anything, to make her family proud, but failing that, she was determined not to disappoint them again. If David should ever learn about her relationship with James he would no doubt chuck her out of the house in an instant - David hated the English - but so long as she kept that secret to herself, she truly believed she could make David happy.

So, though she hated it, though it terrified her, she carried the rubbish out that night without a complaint.

On this particular evening, the pub was especially crowded; it was a Saturday, and all of David's garrulous regulars had put in an appearance, with a few more besides. Ruth tried to tell herself she was grateful for the chance to step outside, to leave behind the shattering noise of the pub and the smell of stale smoke, to trade it for a few moments of peace, of solitude. In truth, what she really wanted, in that instant, was to abandon the rubbish and flee up the stairs, to bang on James's door until he let her in, and spend the night pressed flush to his side, letting the warmth from his body soothe her aching heart, letting the gentle touch of his hand remind her that she was more than what David thought of her, more than just a pub girl, more than those four walls and the opinions of the people therein. She would not go, however; there was every chance she would be seen, and it would not do to jeopardize her home, her standing with her family, her very life, for a moment's pleasure. There would be other times, better times, when they could see one another. She need only be patient. And besides, she'd already had him between her legs once today; surely she could wait, before seeing him again.

There was someone waiting for her, there at the back of the carpark; with her heart in her mouth she continued, one slow step at a time, breathing a sigh of relief when the shadow resolved itself and revealed, not Ryan Kelly as she had feared, but George.

George was a mystery to Ruth. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a smattering of freckles across his nose and a mop of unruly red hair, he wasn't a bad looking young man. He was a bit thick; he had been at school with Ruth, and had performed miserably in every single subject until finally one day he stopped coming altogether. No one really missed him, she recalled, but he was doing well for himself. He had a good job on the docks, and unlike the rest of his mates, he rented his own little flat in the city center, paid his own way instead of leeching off his parents, drinking their booze and boasting about things he would never do. Ruth often suspected this was the chief reason Ryan kept him around; Ryan liked to invite people round to George's for parties, using his mate's flat as place to bed down with any girl who was willing. George let him; perhaps he was afraid, because he worked for Ryan's father on the docks, or perhaps he enjoyed the company, or perhaps he just didn't know how to say _no._ Whatever the reason, Ruth thought he was much too nice to be spending time with Ryan, and had told him so, on more than one occasion.

"All right, Ruthie?" George asked her with a lopsided little smile, politely stubbing out his cigarette the moment she drew near. He reached out and took the rubbish from her, his strong arms never faltering as he heaved the load up and into the dumpster. Ruth smiled at him, just a little, even though she hated it when people called her _Ruthie_ ; he really was a nice boy, and she knew he meant well.

"Can't complain," she lied. "You?"

"Yeah, I'm all right," George said, shyly ducking his gaze and scuffing the toes of his boots against the pavement.

"What are you doing out here all alone?" Ruth asked him. She shivered; it was cold, and she hadn't brought her coat, thinking that she would be out and back before she had a chance to freeze. It had been a miscalculation, she now saw.

"I wanted to talk to you," George said, still not quite meeting her gaze. That piqued her interest; they'd spoken several times, over the last few months, when George came to seek her out to apologize for Ryan's latest infraction. What had he come to apologize for now? she wondered.

"About what?" she asked, stomping her feet to keep the cold at bay.

"Ryan," he said, and Ruth's heart sank like a stone in her chest. _Oh God,_ she thought suddenly, _does he know about James? Was he one of the boys who chased him? Oh, George, please don't be mixed up in this._

"He's in a right state," George continued. "Some fella broke into his house, a few nights back. We caught him, bold as brass in the sitting room. I chased after him, but he were too fast for me."

"What's that got to do with me?" Ruth demanded. Though she regretted taking that angry tone with George, who was a sweet boy and had done nothing wrong, really, had only come to talk to her, she was so afraid that she could not keep her voice level.

"Ryan says there was someone else, keeping a lookout, like. He and some of the others chased the other one, and Ryan threw a brick at him. Says he winged the bloke, knocked him down, but they didn't catch up with him."

"George-"

"Ryan didn't see his face, but he thinks it's that Englishman. Your Englishman." At last, George raised his soft brown eyes to her face. Strangely, he looked hurt, sad almost; Ruth thought she might have known why, but she shied away from the very idea of it. Her own heart was burden enough, she didn't need to start worrying about George's now, as well. That George had referred to James as _your Englishman_ was more troubling still; had people noticed, then, the interest James had taken in her? They had spoken often enough, but always in the pub, while Ruth poured him a drink or they passed in the corridor. Except for that night when James had very nearly broken Ryan's nose, they had not seen one another outside the four walls of Shaw's. Surely they had done nothing untoward? She wracked her brain, thinking hard.

"He's not _my_ anything, George," she said softly.

George smiled, a little sadly, and for the first time Ruth found herself wondering if he was really as thick as everyone said he was. At the moment, he appeared rather more perceptive than she had ever given him credit for.

" 'Course not, Ruthie," he said evenly. "Still, you might warn him to keep his head down. Ryan's told his Da, and you know what the old man is like. You might tell your...friend it's time for him to leave, before things get worse."

"Is that a threat?" Ruth asked shrilly, hardly believing her ears. It wasn't the sort of thing George did, going around delivering ultimatums and insulations.

"No, Ruthie," George said quickly, his eyes shining with his sincerity. "Honest. Ryan'd kick my arse if he knew I were here. I was just worried…I just want you to be _safe,_ Ruthie, and things are about to get very _unsafe_. I don't want any trouble, honest. You know I don't."

"Yeah, I know," she said, ducking her head.

For a moment they were quiet, lost in their own thoughts as the sounds of raucous laughter echoed out from the pub and the cars rumbling past on the street buzzed in the background.

"You get back inside now, Ruthie," George said finally, his voice so very gentle that it nearly broke her heart to hear it. "It's freezing. You'll catch your death."

And before Ruth could answer he leaned in, kissed her on the cheek, and then departed all in silence, leaving a very troubled girl in his wake.


	27. Chapter 27

**18 July 2006**

Harry slept but little, following his meeting with Samuel Burns. He was troubled by the questions Burns had posed to him, regarding Maren's parentage, and troubled too by the swirling maelstrom of innuendo that surrounded George's untimely death. Though his eyes were gritty as sandpaper, though his shoulders ached, though he longed to bury his head beneath the pillows and sleep for a week, he dragged himself out of bed and into the shower at first light. He had been too long a soldier, too long a spy, too long accustomed to rising early and working from the moment his feet touched the floorboards to indulge himself in sleeping much past seven o'clock. Once the sun rose he was awake, and there was nothing he could do to change that until the darkness returned.

As he showered, pondering what to do with the day that stretched gloriously unscheduled before him, Harry could not shake the memories of the dance he'd shared with Ruth only a few hours before, the heat of her pressed in close against him, the taste of her when they kissed. Though they had both of them changed, grown weary and wary with time, he found he loved this woman she'd become more than the girl she had been, loved her strength and her uncertainty, loved her passion and her stubborn pride. He'd been back in her life for a grand total of three days, and that he should already have resigned himself to loving her so completely troubled him somewhat. _Is this madness, James?_ She'd asked him, the sound of his legend's name falling from her tongue leaving him feeling nothing but guilt, guilt for the lies, guilt for the danger he'd brought to her door, guilt for the heartache he'd caused her, just by loving her. There seemed no other word for his love but madness, though he had not said as much to her, choosing instead to make light of the question. Surely it was mad, for him to think he loved her, after all this time? That he had loved her then was no great mystery; they had spent months wrapped around each other, she his only friend, his only confidant in a city full of people who hated him, the only source of warmth and light and affection in a life so long devoid of joy. That he could love her now seemed no more than the folly of a man grown bitter and tired in middle age.

The phrase _star-crossed lovers_ came to mind; he'd always rather liked it, in a terribly romantic sort of way, and it seemed rather apt, given all that he and Ruth and endured since they first came together. Lovers who dared defy fate, who were struck down by the stars themselves, destined for only tragedy should they pursue one another, yet bound to try, regardless. Perhaps it was madness, to try to draw close to her once again, perhaps it was tempting the wrath of the very universe, to try to throw off the chains that bound him to his life in London and seize his heart's desire, whatever the cost. Perhaps it was mad, perhaps he was destined for abject misery, but Harry could not keep her from his thoughts, could no more stop his heart yearning for her than he could carve it from his chest and present it to her on a silver platter. Whatever it took, whatever agony it brought, he would still pursue her, for in three short days he had become so enraptured by her that the thought of not having her was too devastating to even be considered.

 _It's not up to you,_ he reminded himself. Whatever he wanted, whatever he yearned for, he knew that it was not his decision to make alone. He would ask no more of Ruth than she was willing to give; considering that he'd only been back for three days and she'd already kissed him twice, already shown herself to be as caught up in emotional turmoil as he was himself, he had rather high hopes. Though he had not gone so far as to consider what sort of future they might have, might build together, he could not deny the hope that her kiss, her touch had instilled in him, and it was with that hope bubbling in his chest that he made his way down the stairs and into the dining room in search of breakfast and the dearest longing of his heart.

It was Maren who greeted him this morning, looking a bit the worse for wear, her blouse wrinkled and dark circles shadowing her brilliant blue eyes. As Harry murmured his good morning and watched her shuffle off to the kitchen to place his breakfast order he could not help but feel as if the balloon of happiness that had been steadily growing in his chest had suddenly ruptured. Whatever designs he had, as regarded his relationship with Ruth, he knew he needed to take Maren into account. It didn't matter, really, if she was his child or not; she was _Ruth's,_ Ruth's flesh and blood, Ruth's responsibility, and whatever the future might hold for he and Ruth, Harry keenly felt a duty to treat Maren kindly, to be honest with her, to be sure that his actions would not cause her grief.

When she returned, Harry found himself growing concerned as he watched her; she seemed unable - or unwilling - to meet his eyes, and the eerie stillness from her compounded his worries. It was a Tuesday morning, and as such the pub was all but empty. Harry's only dining companions were the same pair of garrulous old men who had resumed the positions they'd occupied at the end of the bar the morning before. Maren did not chat with them, did not laugh with them, but instead leaned back against the wall, running a weary hand across her face.

"All right, Maren?" Harry asked her in a soft voice, immediately regretting the use of her name, fearing it was too familiar, given that she had never offered it to him.

She jumped a bit, no doubt startled at having been addressed so directly, her eyes round and uncertain as she watched him. Briefly she glanced towards the other diners, but as the old men showed no interest in what was happening at the other end of the bar she seemed to deem it safe and approached him slowly, coming to a stop directly across from him, her arms folded tightly over her chest.

"Can I ask you something, Mr. Harrison?" she said softly, in a voice designed to carry no further than his ears.

Harry's heart began to pound in his chest; he could think of no cause he'd given her, to question him, to speak to him so hesitantly, where before she had been all fire and bravado, and he wracked his brain, desperately trying to prepare himself for whatever lay ahead even as he responded quietly, "of course."

"You knew my mam, when you were here before, didn't you?" she asked.

 _Christ._

"I did," he answered slowly. "I was here for months, and I took most of my meals here at the pub. She was always very kind to me." It seemed the best course of action, to remain vague. It wasn't up to him to reveal Ruth's past indiscretions, or his own possible connection to Maren. That was up to Ruth, and he had no desire to rock the boat, to make things more difficult for her than they already were.

Maren was quiet for a long time, watching him closely, and for a moment he felt as he often did in Ruth's presence, as if he could hear the very wheels of her mind turning as she evaluated the problem at hand. Harry had endured his fair share of uncomfortable interrogations, but no physical pain he'd experienced had been quite as excruciating as this, as sitting here quietly attempting to deny the woman he loved, attempting to quell the innate desire he felt to stand up and claim Maren for his own. Not knowing was killing him; he wanted to do right by her, and if she were truly his daughter, he wanted to know her, to protect her, to be a part of her life, as he wanted with Catherine and Graham. And if she were not his daughter, still he would care for her, because she was _Ruth's_ , and all the more precious for it.

"I read your book," she said, ducking her gaze. "Well," she amended, "I read the author's note, at the beginning."

Harry's heart sank like lead in his chest.

 _Surely she doesn't know,_ he thought desperately. The note to Ruth had been written in a moment of impulsive self-pity, the need he felt to speak to her so great that he could not deny it. He had quietly tracked down the man who'd written the book and stuffed the letter into his hands, demanding it be included with the text and hinting rather wildly that it was a matter of national security. At the time he had believed that the letter was vague enough to avoid drawing attention, but now he wasn't so sure. Maren had been raised by Ruth, after all, and he had never known anyone with an analytical intellect to rival Ruth's. He had to say something, he realized; the expression of abject misery on Maren's face was enough to tell him, without words, that she had seen straight through to the heart of the matter.

"Maren-" he said her name softly, unsure of what would come next, unsure of how best to defuse the bomb he'd just been handed, but before he had the chance, they were interrupted by the young Connor Kelly, who came sidling up the bar with a hopeful expression on his face.

"Morning, Maren," he said, and as he spoke Maren's cheeks flushed crimson, her eyes darting wildly back and forth between the pair of them.

"C-c-coffe?" Maren stammered, wringing her hands together as she spun on her heel, clearly anxious to help him and to avoid the topic she and Harry had just been discussing.

"And a fry up," Connor answered. "Please."

For a moment Harry watched them, the gentle, almost worshipful smile on Connor's face, the flustered, somewhat clumsy way Maren poured his coffee, and he realized, with sudden clarity, that he was in the wrong place.

"Tell you what, lad," Harry said, turning to the young man sitting beside him. It was apparent that Connor recalled the almost-altercation between Harry and his father; there was something mistrustful, almost frightened in the tensing of his shoulders. "You can have mine, when it comes out. Stomach's not agreeing with me, this morning."

"Right," Connor said slowly, clearly a bit confused by the whole thing. "Thanks."

"Enjoy it," Harry told him, unable to keep the wistfulness out of his voice, thinking not of breakfast but of Maren, of the obvious affection between the pair of them, the potential for disaster inherent in their courtship, and the equally calamitous nature of his own romantic entanglement. _Oh, to be young,_ he thought, sparing one last, thoughtful glance at Maren before rising to his feet, and rushing out the door.

He had to speak to Ruth. If Maren suspected the truth of their past, it would not be long before she began to ask even more uncomfortable questions, and he and Ruth needed to be on the same page when that time came. He did not know how much Ruth had told her, how much she wanted her to know, and he was determined not to muck this up. With that in mind, he beat a hasty retreat, his feet carrying him out of the pub and up the gravel path to the cottage. Though Ruth had no qualms about bursting into his room unannounced Harry was not so presumptuous as to think he could be allowed the same liberties; the difference, he felt, was that he _wanted_ her in his room, and he had no idea, at present, if she felt the same way about having him in her home. So it was that though he was near to bursting with nervous energy and the need to speak to her, to see her once again, he forced himself to stop on her front step, and knock on the door.

After a month she appeared, and the sight of her soothed his troubled soul at once. She looked as if she'd just rolled out of bed; her hair was loose and hopelessly mussed, and she wore only a soft grey t-shirt and black pajama trousers, her feet bare upon the floorboards. Unable to stop himself, Harry glanced down briefly, and found his heart rate doubled in an instant as he realized she was not wearing a bra. Though he quickly jerked his gaze back up to her face, he could tell by the blush in her cheeks and the defensive way she crossed her arms over her chest that she had noted his interest. Whether or not she was pleased by this interest remained to be seen.

"James?" she asked. "Did you need something?"

 _You,_ he thought.

"I need to speak with you, actually. May I come in?"

For a long moment she studied him, no doubt weighing the potential for catastrophe against her own desire to spend time alone with him once more; during the agonizing wait - which in truth lasted only seconds - Harry took a deep breath, marshaling his arguments should she try to refuse him. They _had_ to talk, and though he was not the sort of man who would insinuate himself into a woman's home uninvited, he knew he could not let this opportunity pass him by, could not risk Maren cornering him alone again.

Ruth sighed. "All right, then," she said, taking a step back and gesturing for him to enter. "I'll put the kettle on."


	28. Chapter 28

**18 July 2006**

Though she had not been expecting him, somehow Ruth was not surprised to find James standing on her doorstep. From the moment he first arrived she'd felt as if she were caught in the midst of a hurricane, an unstoppable, insatiable force of nature, a swirling vortex shredding her carefully constructed life to pieces all around her, and no way to put an end to the chaos save to throw her hands up, and allow herself to be swept away by the howling wind and rain. Devastation had always followed in James's wake, and yet she could no more distance herself from him than she could sprout wings to carry her far above the tumult that had become her existence. Of course he had come to her; who else would knock upon her door, so early in the morning? She had a few friends, did not live in complete isolation, but no one ever visited her at home. James had only been in the city for a matter of days, and yet he was now stepping over her threshold for the second time.

Ever the mindful hostess Ruth led him through the house back to the kitchen, lamenting the fact that at the moment of his arrival she had been slobbed out on the settee with a bowl of cereal balanced precariously on her stomach, and thus was neither dressed nor in anyway prepared for company. The house was messy, and there would be no fresh bread waiting for him on this visit. _He'll just have to make do with a cup of tea,_ she thought glumly. Not that she thought he would mind; the expression of undisguised longing that had flickered in his eyes upon taking in her somewhat slapdash appearance - and, to her embarrassment, her lack of a bra - told Ruth all too plainly that this man had not come in search of a meal.

And that thought bothered her almost more than her current state of deshabille. What could have brought him here, she wondered, so early in the morning, looking distressed and perplexed and rather delectable in his white collared shirt? Ruth had not slept much, the night before; after her conversation with Maren she tossed and turned, fretting about her daughter, about James, about Ryan bloody Kelly, and when the sun rose she had found herself feeling rather sluggish and out of sorts. Though she and Maren had both dragged themselves off to the pub at 7:00, the way they did most every morning, Maren had the benefit of youth on her side, and had gently suggested that her mother could do with a bit of a rest. For once, Ruth had not bristled at the implication of her own limitations, and had gratefully returned to her quiet little house, and her comfortable little settee.

Now that James had come bursting in on what should have been a peaceful respite, she found herself flooded with nervous energy, buoyed along by fear and doubt and hope, all at once. There was something almost provocative about having him here like this, something almost illicit in inviting a man whose bed she had once shared to come into her home, when no one else was about. The house was a distinctly feminine space, full of bright colors and soft pillows, with lacy curtains on the windows and a little cat sunning itself in the corner, and seeing James standing tall and broad in the midst of it all only served to highlight his blatant masculinity, the stubble on his chin, the thick muscles of his forearms, the very smell of him seeming somehow more pronounced, more appealing, than ever before.

Ruth kept her back to him, as she started up the kettle and pulled down mugs for tea, trying to order her thoughts, trying not to think too hard about the dance they'd shared the night before, the feeling of peace that had enveloped her, as she stood cradled in his arms, the flush of heat that threatened to consume her even now as she recalled the burning taste of his kiss, the certainty of his hands tracing the contours of her body, promising her pleasure beyond all reckoning, if only she gave herself over to him once more. She _wanted_ to, wanted _him_ with a ferocity that stunned her, after all this time apart, but she could not shake the fear that haunted her steps, could not shake the sense that the moment she allowed herself to indulge in the weakness of her desire for him he would surely be ripped away from her, just as he had been all those many years before. The thought of enduring such a loss for a second time was excruciating; she could still feel the sweet sting of the wound their parting had left in her soul, and she worried that her heart could not endure such pain a second time, not now, not after everything else.

"I'm sorry to barge in like this," James said softly; the sound of his voice startled her, so lost was she in her own grief, her own hunger for him. "But it really can't wait."

Those words filled her with dread. She did not speak, could not speak, for fear of what might come next, what shocking revelation was waiting for her on the other side of the kitchen, ready to drip from his full lips like poisoned wine, to bring her to her knees. For a mad moment she considered throwing aside the mug she clutched in trembling hands, considered going to him, catching his face in her hands and kissing him hard, considered leading him up the narrow staircase to her little bedroom under the eaves and hiding within the shelter of his body, far away from whatever horror he had brought to her doorstep. If only it were that easy, to keep the pain at bay, she might have done it in an instant, knowing full well that he would have gladly gone along with her, but easy had not ever been her lot in life. And so she did not go to him, much as she might have longed to. She only poured their tea, and then made her way to the tiny kitchen table, where he joined her with a grim expression on his face.

They were quiet for a moment, each settling into their chairs, sipping their tea and trying not to stare too long at one another. There was a tension in the stillness, an unspoken question hanging in the air, the memory of their dance sparkling just on the edge of her vision, and Ruth had no desire to shatter this transient tranquility with her own inquisitiveness. For now, for this instant, she allowed herself to indulge in this, in having James so close to hand, the simple domesticity of the moment, the simple warmth of his eyes, watching her over the rim of one of her battered mugs, the sight of him in this place so foreign and yet so undeniably _right_ that she could hardly bear to look away.

Finally, James cleared his throat, set his mug down upon the table, and steepled the tips of his fingers together, watching her closely as he prepared himself to speak. _Is this what he looks like at work?_ She found herself wondering. Ruth knew little enough about his work, but she assumed that, given the way time had stolen away the lithe young man she recalled and replaced him with the hulking shadow now sitting across from her, he was no longer as active as he had been. She imagined he spent most of his time behind a desk now, shuffling paperwork and leaving the heroics up to the youngsters. What would it be like, she wondered, to see him in his office, behind his desk, enthroned in the unquestionable power that he draped around himself like a robe of state? He must seem formidable indeed, she thought, to the people whose job it was to follow his every command, but it was hard for her to see him as anything other than James, this man she'd loved for so long now, this man who could be soft, who could be shy, who could be uncertain, who so badly wanted to do right, who had so often miscalculated, who yearned, above all, to be seen, to be known, to be loved. He was not a god, her James; he was just a man, a man who had moaned when she wrapped her lips around his cock, who had whispered his love for her into her hair while his seed dried slowly on her belly, a man who had held her when she cried, and made a fool of himself just to see her laugh.

"We may have a bit of a problem," he said slowly. Ruth snapped her gaze up to his face, somewhat ashamed to realize she had been rather pointedly staring at his chest, somewhat grateful that he had been polite enough not to do the same. "I spoke to Maren this morning."

"Christ almighty," Ruth sighed, leaning back in her chair and running her fingers through her hair. _I can't leave that girl alone for a moment, can I?_

"It seems she got her hands on a copy of the book," he continued, and Ruth felt her stomach drop away in horror as she suddenly recognized precisely where this little chat was going. "I don't know how, but she's put it all together. She knows, Ruth. About us," he added, though there was no need; Ruth had put some things together herself. "Obviously, she doesn't know everything, but she's aware that there was something between us, then, and she tried to ask me about it. We were interrupted, and so I came here straightaway."

He grew quiet, staring down at his tea, leaving Ruth alone with the riot of her thoughts. She recalled the message in the book quite clearly, had read it over and over again over the course of the last twenty years, using those gentle words to console herself, to remind herself that whatever his motivations, in taking her in his arms, James was _real_ , not some fevered dream, not some hopeful imagining of a man too good to ever possibly exist. That Maren had read those words, and immediately drawn the correct conclusion, turned her stomach. She had hoped, before now, to never speak the truth to Maren, to never burden her daughter so with the reality of her mother's fickle heart. To Ruth's mind it wasn't the sort of thing a girl ought to know about her mother, the dalliances and the salacious affairs of her past. Even now, when Maren was grown and old enough to make her own mistakes Ruth kept her assignations secret, slipping off to visit Sean with Maren never the wiser - at least, Ruth _thought_ she was none the wiser, but now she wasn't so sure. It seemed that there wasn't much got past Maren.

Still, though, a part of her was touched that James had come to her for guidance, had not spoken without first checking with her, sitting down with her to work out a plan so that they could present a united front. It was a rather thoughtful gesture, to her mind, and one that spoke of the gentility with which James had always treated her. He could be the soul of discretion, her spook; only the night before, when they'd both of them nearly been swept away by a flood of lust and memories, she had retreated from him, and he had not pressed, had not taken advantage, had acquiesced to her without protest, allowing her, even as he was now, the chance to deny him if she wished.

As the seconds ticked away and she did not respond James became rather obviously concerned, raising his eyes to search her face, though she was not sure what he hoped to find there. She would have to speak, she knew, would have to confront this new discomfort, but she had no notion of where to start. None of the parenting books covered this, she thought glumly; no one had ever taught her how to navigate these murky waters.

"Well," she said finally, "there's no sense in denying it, and I'm not interested in lying to her. I think it will be enough, if she asks again, to say that it happened, and leave it at that. There's no need to tell her the rest."

 _No need to tell her that you might be her father, that I loved you then, love you still, in a way I never loved George. May God forgive me._

"Right," James said, rather gruffly, she thought. She smiled at him fondly, at his obvious unease with the subject at hand. How would he have explained it, she wondered, if he and Maren had not been interrupted, if he had not been given an opportunity to turn tail and run? Ruth knew her own heart, her own memories, her own hurt, but she found herself quite suddenly fascinated by the thought of James, and how he must feel about their situation. Was he pleased, to think that Maren might be his? It seemed that way sometimes; there had been moments when Ruth had caught his gaze following Maren across the pub, had seen the way his eyes lit up at the sound of her name, and she had found herself wondering if perhaps he _wanted_ Maren to be his, wanted a child, a family, with Ruth. Would he be proud, to stand up and claim Maren, to admit his love for her mother? Would he be ashamed, thinking of his wife? She wanted, suddenly, to ask. She wanted to know him, wanted to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips, wanted, just for a moment, to be brave enough to set aside her doubts and embrace the love that burned so brightly inside of her.

"Right," she agreed, still smiling. With each passing second her resolve to keep him at arm's length was wavering, and she found she could no longer convince herself that she was better off without this man.

"I suppose I ought to go," he said after a time, in a tone that seemed to imply he wanted to do nothing of the sort. "Let you get back to your nap," he added, somehow managing to be both playful and uncertain, all at once, and Ruth found she did not want him to go, did not want him to be anywhere but here, with her.

"Stay a while," she said softly, as with a boldness that shocked even her she reached out and covered his hand with her own. "You haven't even finished your tea."

For a moment James's gaze flickered down to their hands, and then, rather unexpectedly, he turned his hand over beneath hers, tangling their fingers together at once, sending a flash of heat spiraling up the length of her spine.

"I don't want tea," he said, his voice a deep, rumbling growl as his eyes lifted to her face. The need, the want, the hunger she saw swirling in those eyes left her breathless, and she felt herself standing on the edge of an abyss, desiring nothing so much as to fling herself into the damnation that awaited her below. It was up to her, she knew; she could pull them back from the precipice, as she had so often done in the past, or she could jump, could draw him closer still and give them both what they so desperately longed for. She could be brave, here in the peaceful stillness of her home, could be selfish when there was no one around to see, no one save James, this man she wanted more than her next breath.

"What _do_ you want, then?" she asked him, surprised at her own daring, hating the way her every dream seemed to hang in the balance as she waited for him to speak, to reassure her or reject her as he chose.

Still holding her hand tightly in his own James rose to his feet, and in the movement of his body she was pulled along in his wake, helpless to fight against the tide of passion that rippled around her feet. As he came to stand beside her he did not stop, did not slow down to allow her a moment to catch up, to catch her breath, to find her bearings; he drew her into his arms, and bowed his head to brush her lips with his own.

"You," he breathed, and before she could respond he was kissing her in earnest, and she was utterly lost.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Once again, I must apologize for the delay. I've been quite ill the last week or so, and on top of that I've been totally swamped at work. I have not forgotten this story, and I have no intention of abandoning it, though I may not be able to stick to my usual breakneck pace of writing. I beg your patience. And for now, this chapter is M-rated.**

* * *

 **18 July 2006**

As the minutes ticked by, the passion between them only grew, as they kissed with a bruising ferocity, tangled up together there in her kitchen. Harry couldn't quite believe his luck somehow, couldn't quite wrap his mind around the notion that Ruth had reached out to him, that she had placed her hand over his own and asked him so boldly what he wanted, knowing the answer and yet throwing caution to the wind, and asking anyway. He wanted to throw his hands up in the air and cheer out of sheer exuberant joy, but he could not pull himself away from the gentle warmth of her body long enough to engage in such exulting, not now, not when he was holding her, not when the sunlight streaming in from the windows warmed her skin and turned her golden and glorious before him, not when her tongue was furiously, feverishly tangling with his own. In this moment he could no more have stopped kissing her than he could have stopped breathing, and Ruth herself seemed equally swept away by the flood of desire that swirled around them, drawing them under.

He took one step, and then another, and Ruth moved with him, her body bowing against his as his hands traveled the elegant curve of her spine, learning the changes time had wrought in her and falling ever more deeply in love with her with each passing second. One more step, and then they came to a stop, as Ruth bumped into the kitchen table, letting loose a breathless, startled little laugh before resuming her exploration of his mouth. There was no space left, between their desperate kisses, their fervent moans, their eager, insatiable hands, in which to come up with a plan, to consider ramifications, to take a step back from the precipice. They had already jumped from the cliff, and were plummeting fast, tangled up together.

As they stood, locked in their embrace, Ruth's hands mapped the broad expanse of his shoulders, her fingertips dragging against the hard muscle and harder bones beneath his skin, and with each tender touch, his yearning for her only grew. For twenty long years he had thought of her, had dreamt of her, had thrust himself inside his faceless partners thinking only of her, the brilliant shine of her eyes, the delirious song of her whimpers, the sheer damning heat of her. No other woman, before or since, had left such an indelible mark upon him; he was addicted to her, had been from the moment they first touched, and across the decades that marked their separation he had endured all the symptoms of withdrawal, his hands shaking and his thoughts consumed by his need of her. And now he had her again, felt the sharp, nigh on unbearable high of holding the object of his desires within the circle of his arms once more, and his rational mind deserted him, all thoughts of his age and his bum knee and his countless failings deserting him at once so that he was now acting on instinct alone, that base, primal urge to claim her, to devour her, consuming him even as he longed to consume her.

So it was that he did not stop to think about the foolishness, the recklessness of what he was about to do; he simply did it. Acting on instinct his hands trailed down across her body, feeling her trembling beneath his touch, until his hands curved around her bum, squeezing her once before lifting her up and onto the table behind her.

The table was small, round and made of oak, but it was mercifully sturdy, and did not buckle under her slight weight. The sudden change in their position tore them both from their kiss, and Ruth took the opportunity to draw a ragged breath, tossing her head, her dark hair swirling round her shoulders. Sitting astride the table she was now slightly above him, and she reached out, running her fingers over his scalp, threading through his sparse hair and smiling at him softly as she struggled to steady her breathing, her chest heaving, her nipples hard and visibly standing to attention beneath her soft shirt. Harry ran his hands over her hips, around her waist, feeling the fabric rippling beneath his touch, feeling the heat of her scorching him even through that barrier, knowing it would be easy, so damnably _easy_ to strip her bare and take her there and then, if she wanted him to, if she would let him.

It was in his mind to ask her, to check one final time to confirm that this was what she wanted, that her thoughts had taken the same somewhat lascivious turn as his own, but Ruth did not give him the chance to speak; she wrapped her legs around his waist, the heat and the softness of her thighs pressing against him drawing a groan from his lips unbidden, and with a surprising strength she pulled him into her, throwing him momentarily off balance. Harry tumbled into her, her hands cradling his head, guiding his mouth back to hers even as he threw out his hands to catch himself, coming to rest palms down on either side of her bum. It was her turn to lead them on, and so she did, the insistence of her heat, unbearably close to his own growing hardness, the press of her ankles against his body telling him in no uncertain terms precisely what she wanted.

And if this was what she wanted, if she had somehow found it within her heart to forgive him for abandoning her, to admit to her need of him, to succumb to the desire that had bound them almost from the moment they first met, then he was bound and determined to give it to her, to give her everything he had and more besides, to make her scream out in pleasure, to make her _his_ , once more, never again to be taken from him. If this was what she wanted then he was determined to love her in a way that not even he had managed before, even when he was young and headstrong and capable of thrusting himself inside her all night long. If this what she wanted, then he was determined to make sure that for all the rest of her days, _he_ would be the only man she ever longed for, just as she had become the only woman in the world to him.

He did not pause, did not give himself an opportunity to think better of it. He slid his hands once more to her hips, and ran them under her gray t-shirt, sliding against the sinuous, silky softness of her skin until her captured her breasts, kneading them in time to the thrusting of his tongue in her mouth, her nipples hard and pebbled beneath his palms. Beneath him she whimpered and gave a subconscious thrust of her hips against his own, drawing him ever tighter against her, and still he continued, drunk on the feel of her firm, tender flesh beneath his hands and the way she ground herself against him, the rhythm of her movements promising him delights beyond imagining. And still the tempo of their desire grew, their hearts beating in time, faster and faster, blood pounding in his ears like some ancient drum echoing a song of love that wakened some slumbering beast deep within his chest, some insatiable giant come to life and eager to feast upon this woman he held within his arms.

That song, that need, that fire could not be denied, and so he all but ripped the shirt from her, drawing a gasp from her lips as they separated. He did not give her the chance to speak, but the burning look she gave him told him everything he needed to know. With a growl from somewhere deep inside his chest he pressed his advances upon her once more, holding her up with one hand pressed flush to the center of her back while his mouth descended upon her, enveloping one tight, delicious nipple between his lips while his lover moaned her approval and rocked against him in ever-increasing wantonness. The taste of her, the heat of her, the sound of her, the smell of her arousal floating all around him drove him nearly mad with need, and he continued on, relentless, wedging his free hand between them, his fingertips pressing along the seam of her trousers, using that little ridge to his advantage. She was hot and wet already; he could feel her, through the thin material of her pajamas, and she let loose a gasp, her whole body shuddering as she thrust down against him, desperately chasing the friction between them, the release he promised with each pass of his fingers. It would be easy enough, he knew, to make her come undone right then, but he wanted _more_ , wanted everything, and so he did not give into her demands.

Instead, scraping his teeth across her nipple and sucking it back into his mouth once more to her delight and her undoing, he caught her hips in his hands, running his fingertips beneath the elastic of her pajamas and knickers alike, catching the fabric and dragging it down. As he stripped her he took the opportunity to run his hands along the creamy softness of her legs, from the joint at her hip all the way down to her ankles, forced to release the hold his mouth had taken as he withdrew from her, leaving her panting and completely naked on the table, her bare breasts heaving, her legs splayed open and the dark thatch of curls between her thighs calling out his name. She was impossibly lovely, his Ruth; her posture, the curve of her body, the tension in her soft muscles, the burning luminescence of her eyes, all combined to paint a singular image, a Renaissance portrait come to life.

And in that instant, staring at her, wanting her with every piece of himself, he stopped. Only for a moment, watching her, wondering at her, at her beauty, marveling at the thought that this woman wanted him as he wanted her, that she was here in this room with him, watching him with hungry eyes, not telling him to stop but with her every movement calling him on, begging him for more. They did not speak, but then they did not always need to; sometimes, he had found, words simply got in the way, particularly with Ruth, with this woman who always spoke so carefully, who weighed her every thought so heavily before sharing it. Perhaps it was best not to speak, not to ruin this moment when for once they seemed to be of one mind, bent on one common goal. Perhaps it would be best, he thought, if he were to touch her again.

And so he did, sliding back between her thighs, his hands dancing up the length of her legs. She drew her face to his once more, and once more he kissed her, felt the quiet reflection of a moment before fading fast beneath his longing for her, and hers for him. And still his hands moved, feeling the curves and dips of her, until he reached her hips once more. This time, though, he did not stop, did not linger; gently he caressed her, sought permission with his kiss while his right continued on its journey, across her soft stomach, down through the raspy curls at her center, until he reached the velvety of softness of her folds.

"James," she gasped, tearing her lips from his own as she threw her head back, reclining on her outstretched hands and canting her hips up towards him invitingly.

Something inside Harry's chest snapped, at the sound of that name falling once more from her lips. Always before he had resigned himself to this, to hearing her call another man's name, to the surge of guilt that filled him, as he thought that she would never truly know him so long as she did not know his name, that he would forever be a stranger to her, unless he gave in and trusted her with this deepest piece of himself. Always before he had hated himself, for loving her and lying to her.

 _No more._

As his thumb circled gently around her clit, teasing her, he leaned towards her, capturing the lobe of her ear between his teeth for a moment, allowing himself an instant to prepare before he spoke, and risked tearing them asunder, for good and all.

"My name is Harry Pearce," he growled against her ear, even as he thrust two thick fingers deep inside her.

Whether Ruth had him or not, he could not be sure; she had given herself up utterly to the moment, riding the rising tide of her passion with undulating hips, her eyes closed as a meager defense against the onslaught, even as she trembled and moaned and came undone beneath him. For his part, Harry simply guided her through, plunging his fingers into her slick wetness again and again, drunk on the sound and sight of her pleasure, his own heart pounding in time to the fluttering of her muscles around his fingers. Onward he moved, building her up higher and higher, never ceasing until suddenly her thighs locked tight around his wrist, her whole body seizing up the moment she achieved her peak, and tumbled over it, whimpering.

Carefully he held her, cradling her dripping sex in his hand, dropping tender kisses against the sharp protrusion of her collarbone, trying to ignore the way his cock screamed to replace his fingers, unable to block out the memory of their first time together, pounding against her as she supported herself on the tabletop in the pub, her hair cascading like a river down the smooth expanse of her back. The sight of her now, curled against him, shuddering slightly as the last waves of her orgasm washed over her, absolutely trounced all his previous memories of her.

Finally she came back to herself, taking one last deep breath before releasing the vice-like grip of her thighs on his forearm. She wound her arms around his neck, and dropped a gentle kiss against the dip in his chin.

"I think we should take this upstairs, Mr. Pearce," she told him softly, and though he could not see it, with her face turned away from him, he could feel the smile on her lips as she dragged them across his raging pulse. So she had heard him, after all.

"Actually," he said, catching her face in her hands and tilting her head back so that he was once more staring into those brilliant eyes he loved so well, "it's Sir Harry."

"Jesus," she said softly, the expression on her face caught somewhere between chagrin and amusement.

"You aren't angry?" he asked, even as he took a step back, taking her hand in his and helping her slide down off the table.

"I knew your name wasn't James," she confessed. "I knew you couldn't have told me the truth, back then. I didn't need to know your name to know _you._ But thank you," she said, leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him once. "For telling me now. For trusting me. _Sir_ Harry," she added with a twinkle in her eye.

* * *

With her heart pounding in her chest, her fingers tangled with his, Ruth led James - Harry - from the kitchen, and up the narrow stairs towards her little bedroom at the back of the house. She had told him the truth; she had always known, in her heart, that his name wasn't really James. It didn't suit him, somehow, didn't quite go with his personality, his face. _Harry,_ though; she rather thought that name fit him as well as the crisp white shirt she was even now planning to tear from his shoulders the moment the bedroom door closed behind them. It was a very English name, she thought, _Harry Pearce;_ and he had a knighthood, to boot. _What on earth did he do to earn that?_ She wondered, even as it occurred to her that she was completely naked, and the fully-dressed knight of the realm who was currently prowling up the stairs behind her had an unrestricted view of all of her most vulnerable parts. This did not concern her very much; the fingers of his right hand were still damp, entwined with her own as she led him on, and there was a pleasant tingling ache between her thighs that spoke so eloquently of him, of them, of what they had done, of what they had yet to do, and she could not find it in her to be bashful. There had been a moment, one single, terrified instant, when in the height of his passion he had stripped her bare and she had wondered if perhaps he would not be pleased, to see how the time had changed her. It had only taken a single look at his hungry expression, however, to tell her that he was more than pleased with her, that he still wanted her, just as he had done when they were both of them younger and tighter and fitter than they were now. And, truth be told, she wanted him just the same, despite the extra weight he carried, despite the way his movements had slowed with time. Beneath it all, he was still James - Harry, whoever - still the same man, and she wanted him, _now_ , before she had a chance to think better of it.

For in truth, she had been dreaming of this moment since the day he left her all those many years before, wondering what it might be like, if ever they were to meet again, and now that the opportunity had presented itself, now that she knew that the heat, the lust, the love that had burned between them in their youth had somehow survived all the chaos and calamity of their separation, she could not bring herself to retreat from him, to deny the longing of her heart. She wanted him, and by God she would have him, here in her little house on a bright Tuesday morning when the horror of the world seemed to have been banished, however briefly, and all that remained was hope and the gentle caress of his hands.

The door closed behind them, and they were there, standing together just inside her little bedroom. Situated as it was in a corner of the house the room boasted two windows, the soft curtains drawn back to let in the morning sun, her bed nestled against the far wall, beneath the lowest point of the gently sloping ceiling. She cast her eye about anxiously, wondering if Harry might find something off-putting in the general disarray of her room, the jumbled pile of clothing in the corner, the untidy heaps of books stacked around the periphery. She'd never gotten around to buying bookshelves for this room, partly due to her lack of finances and partly due to the fact that she simply couldn't face hauling furniture up those stairs if she didn't absolutely have to. There was no need for her to worry, however; it was clear from the look on Harry's face that he couldn't have cared less that the room was messy and the bed was unmade. He only had eyes for her.

"You're so lovely, Ruth," he murmured, reaching out to run one of his broad, strong hands along the curve of her hip, drawing her once more into the circle of his arms.

She sighed happily, pressing a kiss against the underside of his chin before she set about unbuttoning his shirt, hell-bent on balancing out the inequity of their dress. While she did his own hands wandered, reawakening her longing for him.

And wasn't it strange, she thought, the way he could with a single touch set her heart ablaze. In the many long years since she'd last seen him, Ruth had only slept with two other men, first George, and now Sean, and though both of them were attentive - and in Sean's case, inventive - lovers, neither of them had ever quite succeeded in making Ruth lose herself the way that Harry had done so easily. Always her mind was racing, her thoughts a constant distraction, but not with him. He set her soul at ease, filled her with peace, left her operating on nothing more than instinct and emotion in a way that was both foreign and freeing to her.

With his buttons all undone she peeled the shirt from his shoulders, a soft gasp escaping her as she took note of the new scars he carried. During their short-lived affair she had often traced the red welts and lines that marred his broad chest, and he had told her what he could of their making, sparing her most of the details in deference to the need for secrecy inherent in his work. She knew their number well, and as she counted them now, she saw that he had added to the collection; at least one mark, the one on his left shoulder, was identifiable as a bullet wound.

Reverently she leaned forward and kissed him there, feeling the rough edges of the blemish beneath her lips. _He's given so much,_ she thought, but she did not speak, knowing what he would say, should she ask him why, ask him if it had been worth it. Harry believed in what he was doing with all the righteousness of a crusader, she knew; he would no doubt tell her that the safety and freedom of his countrymen was worth the price he paid in blood. Ruth disagreed, but then, she loved him in a way he could never love himself, and his pain seared her twice as deeply.

"Come to bed, Harry," she murmured, her fingers digging beneath his belt, catching hold of him and dragging him back with her. With no further prodding he followed her, still unwilling to tear his hands from her bare skin, even as she was unwilling to cease the exploration of his chest her lips and tongue were currently undertaking. Yes, the time had changed him, but the salty taste of his skin was the same, and she wanted him still.

Once they reached the bed Ruth disentangled herself from him; that was always the most awkward part, she thought, that moment of falling into bed, and Harry was not a small man. She didn't imagine that it would be comfortable, to simply flop back with him on top of her. Instead she chose to arrange herself amongst her tangled sheets, her hair fanned out on the pillow as she watched him, waiting for him to come to her.

Those dark eyes seared her to the core as he slowly, deliberately began to unfasten his belt; for her part Ruth could not tear her eyes away, could not so much as blink as she drank in the sight of him, of his body being slowly revealed to her. The strong, sturdy muscles of his thighs, the coarse hair of his chest, the straining bulge of his cock tenting his trunks; every piece of him delighted and inflamed her, and her inner walls clenched involuntarily at the thought of having him once more between her legs.

When he was finally naked she held out her hand to him, and he took it, sliding his body over hers, leaving her burning everywhere he touched her. He propped himself up on his elbows, his hands cradling the back of her head, and she clasped him there between her thighs, teasing the back of his legs with her toes for a moment before once more wrapping her legs around his waist. He was _close_ , so unbelievably close, his gaze adoring and intimate as he leaned over her. He kissed her once, softly, and then brushed his nose against the tip of her own, eliciting a hum of pleasure from deep in the back of her throat.

This was _right,_ this lying here together, sharing the same air, the same space, breathing one another in like swimmers preparing for a deep dive, filling their lungs one last time before they plunged into the unknown. Everything about this moment was sharp, and sweet, and heady in its promise, and Ruth was grateful that Harry was not rushing them along, that they had left their reckless abandon downstairs, trading it instead for this soulful, steady merging of their hearts. Though her body cried out for him, though she could feel him throbbing with want of her, they savored the moment, savored their closeness, and within her chest she felt her love of this man swelling to almost unbearable proportions, until she thought she might burst from happiness alone.

"I have to tell you," he whispered, his nose pressed to her cheek, his face so close she could not focus on him and instead closed her eyes against the intensity of the moment. "I never stopped loving you, Ruth."

She gasped then, partly because of the words, the depth of emotion, the yearning behind them, and partly because he had chosen that moment to begin to enter her, the flared head of his shaft slipping between her folds, stretching her deliciously. It had not been so very long, since last she'd spent the night with a lover, but she had never had a man quite as well-endowed as Harry, and the sensation of their joining left her breathless and aching for him. He was mindful of this, as ever, moving slowly, and it did not seem to bother him, that she did not respond to his declaration of love. Likely he had not expected her to, given the way he'd spoken, and so Ruth did not fret about it, choosing instead to lock her arms around his neck and give herself over to him entirely.

And then he was fully sheathed within her, and her mind shut down all together. He raised himself up on his arms and withdrew from her, ever so slightly, sliding back into her with a smooth thrust of his hips, and with each movement of his body some fresh, mewling sound of want left her lips until it became too much for him to bear, and he began to pound into her in earnest. She could do no more than cling to him and moan her pleasure, as she was swept away by it, by him, by them together, by the relentless way he filled her, by her own desperate yearning to be utterly consumed by him. Still he moved, harder, and faster, and harder still until she could no longer breathe, could no longer move, could no longer feel her toes, until she reached that point of frenzied, trembling need, when it felt as if with his next thrust she must surely be torn asunder, until she nearly wept with the dire, uncontrollable need that bubbled up deep within her. Harry, sensing just how close she was, shifted their position slightly, catching the back of her thigh in his hand, pressing it back towards her chest, realigning himself above her so that on his next thrust he drove so much deeper within her than before, and she broke with a wail, relief flooding through her in waves as he set her every nerve alight.

The clenching and trembling of her inner muscles around his rock-hard cock was his undoing, and with two more powerful thrusts he succumbed himself, as with a roar he emptied himself inside her before his shaking arms gave way beneath him and he collapsed against her, his head pillowed on her breast. She was thankful for that, thankful that his head was nestled beneath her chin, and so he could not see the tears that streamed freely down her cheeks as she stroked her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair and struggled to regain her breath. He had shaken her to her very core, and she knew, in that moment, that for all the rest of her days, she would love no man but him.


	30. Chapter 30

**18 July 2006**

"What's this one, then?" she asked him softly, trailing the tips of her fingers across the mottled scar that marred his left shoulder. They were tangled up together, lying beneath the crisp white sheets on Ruth's bed, the mid-morning sunlight streaming in through the windows and painting everything in sight with a brilliant, golden hue. There was something wonderfully indulgent about lying there, naked and warm and deliriously happy in the middle of the day, shirking responsibilities and instead delighting in the pleasure of being once more together, as Ruth had so often longed for them to be. She could not truly remember the last time she had spent an entire morning away from the pub, doing as she pleased; though she loved her work it was all-consuming in a way, and what little time she did have away from those four walls was spent furiously trying to attend to the business of her life, trips to the shops or to the bank or to the doctor. Oh, she stole the occasional evening for herself, slipping off to spend a few hours with Sean, but that was different, somehow, not least of all because she rarely lingered, rarely took the opportunity to simply speak to him. With Harry, though, she found she enjoyed this bit, the after bit, nearly as much as the bit that came before it.

From the moment she'd peeled the shirt from his shoulders she had wanted to ask him about the new scars he carried, wanted to know the nature of their making and whether he had truly ever truly healed. So she did now, in this moment when he held her, his arms wrapped around her and her head pillowed on his chest.

A shadow passed over Harry's face, and he tightened his hold on her body briefly. "There was a man on my team. A good man. A good agent. He was framed for something he didn't do, and he was desperate. I didn't believe him, and I tried to stop him, tried to bring him in. He needed more time, to clear his name, and so he did the only thing he could think of. He shot me."

"A good man?" Ruth repeated doubtfully. She raised herself up just enough to drop a kiss against his scar, and then folded herself back into his arms once more. _How could a good man do something like that?_ She asked herself. Not for the first time, she was starkly reminded of how very different her life was from Harry's. In her world, people didn't go around shooting colleagues, and no one else she knew would have been able to say the words _he shot me_ quite as casually as Harry had just done. And yet, his voice had carried no judgment, no recrimination; she heard only sorrow when he spoke, and exhaustion, the kind of weariness that could not be soothed by one good night's rest.

"The best," Harry murmured. "He had no choice, really. If I'd trusted him, if I'd listened to him, he might not have had to do it, but as things stood at the time, it was the only way forward for him. And to his credit, he only shot me in the shoulder. If he'd aimed a bit lower, I wouldn't be here right now."

Ruth shivered involuntarily at that, the very thought that the only thing separating Harry from certain death had been a few inches and his friend's good aim. It was far too close for her comfort.

"What happened to him?"

Beneath her cheek Harry heaved a great sigh, her head rising and falling with his chest as he breathed. The steady thrumming sound of his heartbeat filled her ears in the stillness of her room, and she reveled in it, in that knowledge that he had survived calamity, and come back to her arms once more.

"He broke," Harry said softly. "There's no other word for it. The work became too much for him, and he burnt out, rather spectacularly. I had to let him go."

"Because he shot you?" she asked, her fingers gravitating once more to his shoulder. She couldn't seem to stop touching him, couldn't seem to tear herself away from the warmth of his body, the dichotomy of him, the hardness of his bone and the softness of his belly, the smooth skin of his biceps and the sparse blanket of coarse hair that decorated his chest. Yes, this was indulgent indeed, and Ruth could not find it in her heart to feel remorse, for giving in to the need she felt to be close to him.

"Oh no, he hung around for a few months after that."

At those words Ruth lifted her head, staring down at him incredulously.

"He shot you and he got to keep his job?" she demanded.

Beneath her Harry only laughed, his hands sliding up the expanse of her bare back until they tangled in her hair, drawing her down to him for a brief, albeit rather naughty kiss. Petulantly Ruth pulled away from him, frowning down at him until he continued. She couldn't understand it, really, why he was so forgiving of the man who'd hurt him so.

"Things are different for us, Ruth. Me, and people like me. What he did made sense, in the context of our work. I don't fault him for it; I likely would have done the same. I could overlook it, because he was trying to do his job. What came later, his...breakdown, for lack of a better word, was different. He was no longer focused on the work. He could no longer be depended on. I had to let him go."

Ruth hummed, to let him know that she'd heard him, even if she didn't entirely understand. In truth, his words had planted a seed of doubt in the back of her mind. It was lovely, really, unbearably lovely, to hold him once again, to feel him so close to her, to be able to touch him as she pleased, to hear him speaking to her in that soft, gentle voice. Finally she had admitted to herself just what this man meant to her, just how deep her feelings for him went - even if she had not yet given voice to them - but still, she doubted. Their lives were so _different;_ Harry inhabited another world altogether, a world he would no doubt be called back to in just a little while. He was deeply bound to his sense of duty, and he would choose that duty over everything else, every time. He knew no other life. How could she love such a man? How could she give her heart to him, knowing he was destined to leave her? It was a heavy, unpleasant thought, and it left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"Ruth?" the sound of his voice drew her up from the depths of her reverie, and she blinked at him slowly, her vision clearing as the blackness of her despair faded somewhat. Yes, he would have to leave her eventually, but he was here now, and it would not do to dwell too long on the bleakness of the future, and miss the beauty of the present.

She hummed again, dipping her head to press a kiss against his chest.

"Have dinner with me tonight," he said. There was something hopeful, something vulnerable in his voice that struck to the very heart of her; beneath the weight of her body there rested a man who had been shot and had forgiven his attacker wholeheartedly, a man who had no doubt killed others, who lied and fought and wrangled with the sort of the violence, the sort of horror that Ruth herself had never faced, and yet he was still the sort of man who could cradle her so gently, who could ask her to dinner with all the eager insecurity of a schoolboy approaching the prettiest girl in class for the first time. And for all the contradictions in his nature, still she adored him.

"What, in the pub?" she asked, giving him a playful little nudge as her mind whirred into overdrive, trying to decide how best to answer his request.

"No," he smiled, once more threading his fingers through her hair, an enchanted sort of expression on his face. "There's a place down by the Prom that I think you'd like. Let me take you out, Ruth. Away from here. We could go dancing, after," he added with a smoldering look in his eyes. _We've always been rather good at dancing,_ she thought.

There was nothing Ruth wanted more than to accept. It was a lovely notion, spending time together away from the pub, going on a proper date, acting like a proper couple, instead of sneaking around, stealing a few precious moments of peace amidst the chaos of their lives. It was something she wanted, very much. And yet still some part of her was hesitant, unsure as to whether or not it was the right thing to be doing. What would happen, should they be seen out in public together? What would Maren think? What if Ryan found out about it, and in his resultant fury lashed out at Harry? She couldn't bear it, if she put him in danger for the sake of one night of frivolity.

"Harry-"

"There's nothing to worry about," he said, the corners of his mouth turned down in that pout she loved so well. There was almost nothing she wouldn't do for him, when he looked at her that way. "I'm not running an operation. I'm only here to speak to you. And now that I have, someone else will handle the work. At this point, I'm just on holiday. And I would like, very much, to take you to dinner."

 _Maybe it won't be as bad as all that,_ Ruth mused, reaching out to trace the curve of his lip with her thumb. After all, Harry knew the dangers of his job far better than she; if he thought it was safe, then surely it must be. _You just have to trust him._

"All right, then," she said, unable to stop the smile that formed on her lips when she took in his practically exuberant expression. "It can't be tonight, though. I'll have to close up, since Maren took the morning shift. But we can go out tomorrow."

Grinning boyishly at her Harry drew her down atop him once more, and rather smoothly rolled her underneath him, switching their positions as the hard muscle of his bare thigh settled between her legs and his lips descended on hers once more. They did not speak again for some time.

* * *

Throughout the rest of that day, Ruth carried the memories of the time she'd spent in Harry's arms like a fire burning deep within her chest. Thoughts of him, of his broad, strong hands, his gruff, soulful voice, the sheer ecstatic joy of having him once again warmed her through and through, and she found she could not keep the smile from her face. If Maren or any of the other girls thought it odd, that Ruth should have returned from her nap two hours late and grinning like a fool, they diplomatically chose not to mention it. Once the supper rush thinned out somewhat Ruth sent Maren home, smiling fondly as her daughter thanked her through a jaw-cracking yawn, and slouched off through the door.

It was a Tuesday evening, and so it was that as the sun sank lower in the sky there were fewer and fewer guests for Ruth to tend to. Some bars and restaurants in the area hosted karaoke or trivia on Tuesday nights, trying to draw in more customers, but Shaw's had always been a rather old fashioned sort of place, and Ruth didn't really hold with that sort of thing. She served food and drink and provided beds for weary travelers, and on weekends she would occasionally allow local musicians to set up in the corner of the dining room, but that was as far as it went. _This is a pub, not a bloody disco,_ she'd told Maren more than once. It didn't bother her, that weeknights were often slow; the pub brought in enough money to keep afloat, and she was grateful for the reprieve. A bit of quiet soothed her soul, every now and then.

As she stood behind the bar, listening to the old timers grumbling about their meddlesome wives and keeping an eye on the two young lovebirds necking in the corner, Ruth allowed her thoughts to drift once more to Harry, wondering where he'd got off to after he'd left her house that morning, wondering if he would put in an appearance before the night was through. They'd touched on it briefly while they lay entwined in her bed, the risks involved in Harry coming to the dining room, when Ryan Kelly might show his face and cause a scene at any time. No conclusion had been drawn, however, as to the question of whether or not it would be wise for Harry to visit her there; Ruth had been too distracted by his wandering hands to press her concerns as ardently as she might have done under different circumstances.

It was not Harry who materialized in the doorway as her thoughts wandered and the time slowly slipped away; no, it was someone she was not expecting, someone she was in no way prepared to speak to just then, when she could still practically feel Harry inside of her, could still hear his gruff voice whispering his love for her in her ear.

It was Sean, all lean muscle and soft grey beard, his brown eyes warm and sparkling at her as he made his way across the dining room towards the bar.

Sean did not often come to see her; usually he only put in an appearance on those nights when he could be certain that once the doors had closed Ruth would wipe down the tables, take his hand, and follow him home to fall into his bed for a few hours of pleasure and much needed release. They had known each other since Ruth was a teenager, and their relationship had always been rather restrained, their chats polite but not particularly revelatory. After George's death Sean had taken to lingering in the evenings, and late one night, when everyone else had gone and Ruth was seeing him out, he'd stopped her there in the doorway and kissed her. That night, that first night, Ruth had been rather shocked, to think that he wanted her in that way, that she had drawn his eye, when always before they had been no more than passing acquaintances, but her body, her very soul had been so starved for affection, for simple human contact, that the thought of spending the night wrapped in the arms of a man who would treat her respectfully and never ask more of her than she was willing to give was too good to pass up. They had reached an understanding, and it worked for them. There was no flirting, no gentle teasing, no snogging in corridors; he would come to her, and give her that look, and she would nod - or not, as the case may be - and he would wait for her.

It was a system that worked quite well, but Ruth knew he did not love her, just as she did not love him. Convenience drew them together, not any great depth of feeling. This state of affairs had never bothered her before, but as she looked at him now she could not help but think of Harry, could not help but marvel at how much better sex was, when she was lying beneath a man who loved her, treasured her, worshiped her, a man she loved with such passion, such fire. The very idea of submitting once more to Sean and the soulless pleasure he offered her held no appeal, when compared to what she shared with Harry. She had no desire to speak to him, to ward off his circumspect advances, to offer excuses, and the sight of him made her feel guilty, for having settled for a loveless, casual affair when her heart belonged to the man who'd shared her bed that morning. She didn't want Sean; she wanted Harry, but he was nowhere to be found.

To make matters worse, Sean had not come alone this evening; he had his brother in tow. That was different, too. Usually when Sean came to her he came alone, so as not to draw suspicion, never speaking to his fellow customers, never showing anyone any interest, save for Ruth herself, and even that was a subtle dance with him. Before now, Ruth had been grateful for his discretion; it would not do, for word of their dalliance to spread. They each held a delicate position within the community, and they each had children, though Sean's son had recently left home for university and his daughter was living with her fiance. The sight of Sean and his brother together was a stark, unwelcome reminder of just what a risk Ruth had undertaken, in falling in with him in the first place. It was dangerous, she knew, sleeping with Sean, knowing who he was, knowing what sort of family he came from. And yet, she'd done it anyway.

The two men settled themselves at the bar, and Sean smiled up at her in greeting; or at least, she assumed he was smiling. It was difficult to tell, beneath his beard, but the corners of his eyes crinkled up in a familiar sort of way. Beside him his brother rapped his knuckles sharply on the table, drawing her attention to him as he spoke.

"Pair of whiskeys, Ruthie," Ryan said. "And be quick about it."


	31. Chapter 31

**23 March 1985**

It was a grey and dreary morning, and so Harry remained right where he was, curled beneath the sheets in his room in Shaw's pub, listening to the sound of the rain pattering on the roof and the sound of Ruth's voice, low and sweet, singing as she went about her work. It was _A Stór mo Chroí_ she sang that morning, her voice pouring out in time to the gentle lashing of the rain; the song was drawing to a close, and Ruth's voice was drawing ever nearer to him as she sang, " _a stor mo chroi, when the evening's mist in the mountain and meadow is falling, oh turn, a stor, from the throng and list and maybe you'll hear me calling…"_

Harry had been in this dreary city for three long months now, three months of frustration and doubt, Ruth's presence the only bright spot in what was quickly becoming one of the bleakest periods of his life. To be fair, though, he'd had a stroke of luck or two. After Mickey's cover was blown and he was forced to beat a hasty retreat, Harry had despaired of ever placing another asset on the docks, knowing that the Kellys would be doubly mistrustful of any newcomers in the wake of the break in, but that situation had resolved itself quite neatly. Ruth had told him in a gentle voice one morning of a lad called Sullivan who bore a great enmity to the Kellys, and after bribing the young man with drinks and promises of vengeance (and cash payments), Harry once more had a man on the docks. Sullivan had provided a whole host of news, none of it good. The Kellys were up to something; the drunken uncle Mickey had discovered in their home might have been wheelchair bound, but he was a former PIRA bomb maker, and apparently didn't need the use of his legs in order to ply his trade. On top of that, only Thursday morning a shipping container had landed on the docks with a phony bill of lading, a container that had been shipped to a company that didn't exist and was even now sitting unclaimed on the docks, waiting for something - though Harry knew not what. Sullivan had a plan, to visit the docks late that evening, and take a peek inside the container. Precious few shipments came in of a Sunday, and so on Saturday evenings the docks would be understaffed. Sullivan seemed confident enough in his ability to sneak by undetected, and Harry had little choice but to trust the lad.

Of course, shutting down renegade bomb makers and enforcing customs and shipping laws were not what had brought Harry to Galway in the first place, but a contact in Belfast had rung in with news that Patrick Magee, Harry's intended quarry, had been planning another bombing to follow up the disaster in Brighton. Since no one had seen hide nor hair of Magee, and everyone believed he'd put to shore in Galway, Harry rather felt that shutting down whatever the Kellys were planning might serve a dual purpose; if Harry could catch the Kellys red-handed, he might have leverage enough to turn the incendiary Kelly uncle, to pump him for information. There couldn't be that many PIRA bomb makers; surely the man knew something of Magee. It was the thinnest thread of hope, but it was all Harry had to cling to, at present.

" _For the sound of a voice you will surely miss, somebody speedily returning, a run a run won't you come back soon, to the one that will always love you…"_

Ruth eased open the door to his room, slipping inside with a twirl of her skirt and a flourish as her song came to a close. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling, and Harry couldn't help but grin at her, as she danced ever nearer to him. In the month that had passed since they'd first fallen together, she had seemed to grow lighter, brighter, a beautiful bird trilling merrily as she spun and twirled on wings of freedom, her heart no longer caged and fettered. The sorrow he'd glimpsed in her eyes had faded, replaced with fond affection whenever she looked at him. He believed - he hoped - that he was the source of her joy, that these moments they stole for themselves filled her the same warm glow of delight they instilled in him. Once or twice, across the intervening weeks, he had forgotten himself and told her again how he loved her, and she had taken it better each time, smiling and kissing him softly, though she did not return the sentiment. Ruth knew, as did he, that the time would surely come when he would have to leave her, and though she seemed happy enough to have him now, she also seemed to have reconciled herself to his eventual loss, holding that one small piece of her heart back, though everything else she had she gave to him gladly.

"And how are you this morning, _a stór mo chroí_?" Harry asked her, holding out his hand to her. She took it still smiling, sliding smoothly onto his lap and lifting his hand to drop a gentle kiss against his palm.

"It's a beautiful day," she sighed happily, even as the rain pounded harder against the roof.

Harry chuckled, removing his hand from her grasp so that he could catch her by the hips instead. "Is it now?" he asked, slipping his hands beneath the hem of her jumper, coming to rest against her bare skin.

"It's raining, and Saturday, and no one is here, and David is so hungover he told me he's not coming in at all today. I could stay here with you all day, and no one would know." She smiled down at him, a wistful expression darkening her countenance for just a moment before she banished it away. There was no need for her to explain that longing, that wish for something more; she couldn't stay the whole day, no matter what she said, and he knew it as well as she. They could not go to the cinema, or go out dancing, or even walk along the Prom together, as other couples did. He could not take her to a nice restaurant, fill her glass with wine, watch her eyes sparkling at him in the candlelight. Such was not their lot in life; they were destined for the shadows. But she could stay a while longer, and so Harry dragged the tips of his fingers along the curve of her spine, sending a shiver coursing through her.

"Do you know," he murmured as he took hold of the clasp of her bra, deftly unfastening it beneath her jumper. "I believe you may be right. It is a beautiful day."

* * *

Ruth stood behind the bar, humming happily to herself. The rain had carried on all day, relentless, and precious few souls had made the trek out to Shaw's this evening. Friday night's crowd had been raucous indeed, and likely David was not the only one feeling a mite peckish today. Whether rain or tender heads had stayed them, she saw no sign of David's usual motley crew, and even Ryan and his goons had not come to call; no doubt they were holed up in George's flat, with the music blaring and a keg of weak beer perched precariously atop the toilet cistern in the tiny bathroom. She could picture it now; she'd been to one or two of those parties, reluctantly dragged along by her friends, and she did not envy them their entertainment. Her plans for the evening were much less adventurous, though no less tawdry; after their tryst that morning, James had asked her if she wanted to come back to his room, once she'd closed the pub, and share a bottle of wine. It was two hours until closing time, and Ruth was counting the seconds. Once the doors were closed, she planned to run home, make sure that David and her mother were sound asleep, and then slip into the naughty underwear she'd purchased from a catalog - blushing all the while - before making her way back to his room. Though she knew she could not spend the night, the thought of doing something as normal, as comfortable as sharing a drink with James was intoxicating in itself, and she could hardly wait.

His love had made her bold in a way she had never anticipated; Ruth never would have dreamed, before now, of going out without her mother's permission. Even that night she'd gone down by the water with Ryan her mother and stepfather had known where she was off to, though they could not have imagined what lay in store for her. Lying to them, slipping out of the house unnoticed, that was more the sort of thing Peter did. Ruth was a good girl, she always had been, and before James she had always preferred being home with her books to going out and getting into trouble. He had given her a taste of trouble, though, had shown her how much pleasure could be found in shaking off the shackles of her humdrum life and embracing trouble at every turn, and she had been irreversibly changed by it. The adrenaline that coursed through her now was nearly as addicting as the touch of his hand, and she was enjoying him too bloody much to spare even a moment for the fear that danced just on the edges of her consciousness. He would leave her one day, she knew, and so in the interim she was determined to wring every last bit of pleasure from what little time they had together.

It had been in her mind to hope that the crowd would thin out enough for her to close up shop early, but fate was not on her side this night; she stood, leaning her elbows on the edge of the bar, and watched with bated breath as Sean Kelly came strolling through the doors.

Sean was a bit of an unknown quantity to Ruth; he was a few years older than Ryan, and had already finished school when the family moved to town. He was seeing a girl called Rosie, and he did not often come to the pub. No one seemed to know much about him, though people generally spoke well of him, saying he was a hard worker and a fair sort of man, not given to the childish, sometimes cruel outbursts that his younger brother was so well known for. He always spoke softly, and Ruth had never heard tell of him brawling with anyone; she supposed if she had to face any of the Kellys, it might as well be Sean. As she watched he made a beeline straight for her, his dark eyes shining in his tanned face above a neatly trimmed brown beard.

"Evening, Ruth," he said in the warm voice of his, taking a seat on the stool directly in front of her. At least he was more polite than his brother; Ryan usually called her _Ruthie_ and spat demands at her with a sneer on his face.

"Evening, Sean," she answered, spinning away from him and reaching for the whiskey. She poured him a glass and returned to him quick as a flash.

"Thank you," he said as he took it, leaning towards her just a little. "Why don't you join me? You're slow enough tonight. Sit awhile, let me buy you a drink."

Ruth's heart began to beat overtime in her chest; she chanced a glance around the pub, and found that it was nearly empty. The other employees had all gone home, save for the cook and a dishwasher chatting merrily away in the kitchen, and only three or four guests lingered. What could it hurt, she wondered, to sit down for a moment or two? Her feet were aching, and even as she considered it the thought occurred to her that maybe if she could speak to Sean a while, she might glean some piece of information to pass on to James.

"That's very kind of you," she told him with a bashful smile. She poured a measure of whiskey for herself and then slipped out from behind the bar, taking a seat on the stool next to Sean.

"How's business then, Ruth?" he asked her, smiling at her over the rim of his glass.

Though there was a man waiting upstairs for her, a man who had woken her slumbering heart and set her body ablaze, Ruth could not help but blush beneath Sean's frank, rather knowing stare, her confidence rising with each second he spent scrutinizing her, apparently approving of what he saw. Most people didn't take notice of Ruth, and she found the attentions of a kind man rather flattering.

"Oh, well enough," she said. "We do all right. Not tonight, obviously, but the rain keeps folks at home."

"Not me," Sean said, something grim and dark flickering in the depths of his dark eyes for a moment before it vanished, leaving Ruth to wonder what on earth he could be hiding. "I had to get out of that house."

"It must be hard," she ventured carefully. "Living with so many people." All three of the Kelly boys still lived at home, Ruth knew, along with their mother and father and mysterious uncle. It seemed to her that was entirely too many people to be crammed beneath a single roof; she shuddered at the very thought of having to share her space with so many others, thinking how little privacy Sean must have. At least in her cramped little house there was only her mother and David, now that Peter was gone, and Elizabeth was almost always locked away in her room while David spent most of his time at the pub. At least Ruth could find a piece of quiet for herself at home; she imagined that the Kelly house was never particularly peaceful.

"The old folks aren't so bad," Sean said, taking a long sip. "Ryan's a twat, though. Soon as Rosie and I are wed we're going to buy a house. Can't come fast enough, if you ask me."

Ruth hummed, to show she was listening, though inside her thoughts were churning. She hadn't realized that Sean and Rosie were planning to get married. While that interested her personally, somehow she didn't think that information would be helpful to James; she wanted, very much, to ask after Sean's uncle, but she had no idea how to go about it, and so she held her tongue, hoping he'd offer something up himself.

"And what about you then, eh? Can't be easy, living with David Shaw."

 _Christ_ but this was strange, sharing a drink and a friendly chat with Sean Kelly. _What does he want with me?_ Ruth wondered, ducking her gaze down to her whiskey. He'd never shown any particular interest in her before.

 _He knows,_ Ruth realized glumly. George had referred to James as _your Englishman,_ and James had told her that Sean had been there, that night he'd broken into the Kelly home. Perhaps she wasn't the one mining him for information; perhaps it was the other way around. _I'll need to tread carefully here,_ she thought.

"Oh, he's not so bad, really. He's been married to my mam a long time, we get on all right."

Sean only grunted at this, and for a time there was silence between them, as the little bubble of happiness Ruth had been harboring in her heart slowly deflated beneath the weight of her doubt and her fear.

"I wanted to say, about Ryan," Sean volunteered finally, watching her with an unreadable expression. Ruth cursed his beard; it hid his features well, and kept his thoughts from showing on his face. "I'm sorry, about what he did to you. I gave him a right bollocking for it. You're a good girl, you deserve better."

"Th- thanks," Ruth stammered uncertainly, the word coming out more like a question than a declaration of gratitude. When had Sean ever taken notice of her, to say such a thing? Somewhere along the way she had lost track of the conversation entirely, had lost the sense of adventure, of excitement that had carried her along in the beginning, and now she found herself floundering on a sea of questions.

"He won't shut up about this Englishman," Sean continued, "says he doesn't like the way he's looking at you. I say it's none of his bloody business. You do what you like."

"Sean-" her voice was hardly more than a squeak, as terror closed her throat. _How can he know?_ She wondered desperately. _We've been so careful. Oh please, please don't let James suffer for this._

"You might tell him, though," Sean said, as he downed the last of his whiskey and rose from his stool. "It's not my uncle he should be worried about. We're not the only ones who came here from Belfast." Sean reached into his pocket and thumbed through a wad of bills, casually laying the money for the two drinks down on the bar. "You have a good night now, Ruth. Mind how you go."

And with that he left her; Ruth did not bid him good night, for fear had stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth, stolen the breath from her lungs. Though she could not be certain, she thought she knew who Sean had been referring to, and she knew she needed to speak to James. The naughty underwear would have to wait; she couldn't imagine either of them feeling particularly amorous, after the conversation she knew was coming.


	32. Chapter 32

**23 March 1985**

"I think I'm going to need your help, mate," Sullivan said, his voice a harsh whisper on the other end of the line. It was late, and the pub would be closing soon; Harry wanted nothing more than to hang up the phone, return to his little rented room, and fall into bed with Ruth once more, and so it was that as he listened to his asset's desperate plea his heart sank in his chest. He glanced at his phone; it was nearly 1:30 in the morning. It would take Ruth some time, he knew, to shoo away the last of her customers, sweep the floors and wipe down the tables, and then pop her head in at home before coming round to see him. At best, he had an hour and a half before she'd come knocking on his door. That wasn't enough time, and he knew it.

Harry sighed.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay out of sight," he grumbled, and with that he hung up the phone.

Arranging meetings with Sullivan was difficult; the Kellys knew Harry was sniffing around them, though they may not have known precisely what it was that he was after, and so Harry had to take care not to be seen in the lad's company. If anyone knew of their connection, it would spell disaster for the pair of them. Thus, the arrangement with the payphones; at midnight Harry had walked three streets away and loitered just out of sight, waiting for this particular payphone to ring or not. When he'd heard it trilling, the sound had filled him with equal parts exhilaration and dread. The adrenaline that accompanied any operation threatened to sweep him away, even as he regretted knowing that he would have to cancel his plans with Ruth.

He had a job to do, however, and so he set off to do it. He jogged back to Shaw's, slipped up the stairs and scrawled a hasty note to Ruth, carefully tucking the folded slip of paper into the door jamb before disappearing out into the night again.

 _Maybe,_ he told himself. _Maybe you'll have time enough. Maybe you'll get back before she even notices that you've gone._

It was the thinnest wisp of a hope, but it was all he had to cling to at present. It had to be enough.

* * *

The moment Ruth locked the doors, she set off for home. Trade had been so slow that evening that she'd done her usual clean-up routine around the one or two guests who loitered, and once closing time rolled around, she was ready to go. Her heart pounded in her chest, as she forced herself to walk slowly back to the little house tucked away behind the pub, her thoughts swirling through her mind, chaotic, disjointed, unfathomable. The warning Sean had given her echoed in her ears; _we're not the only ones who came here from Belfast._ The words chilled her to the core, even now, two hours later.

There was someone else in their little circle who had come to Galway from Belfast, someone who had often expressed sympathies for the cause of the PIRA, someone who had drunk a toast in honor of the madman who'd bombed that hotel in Brighton. Someone who spat vitriol about the government, and who had ingratiated himself with the Kellys. Someone with darkness behind his eyes, and a heavy hand. What worried Ruth so desperately was that that someone was David Shaw.

He'd come to Galway as a young man, before Ruth was born, but he had traveled back to Belfast a time or two, and he still exchanged letters with a few old friends back home, still occasionally took phone calls he was careful not to let anyone overhear. Elizabeth couldn't have cared less about her second husband's politics; she listened to him patiently, nodded in all the right places, and then promptly forgot everything he'd ever told her. Ruth had often suspected that her mother harbored no particular fondness for the man, and had simply married him for the sake of the quiet, stable life he could offer. No doubt Elizabeth thought it was a fair trade; a roof over her head and a warm body beside her, in exchange for her listening quietly to the rants of an angry, bitter republican. There was very little else about David to recommend him, as far as Ruth was concerned.

As quietly as she could Ruth slipped into the house, pausing for a moment just inside the door to listen with all her might. The downstairs was silent as a tomb, dark and empty, and no creaking of floorboards or whispered words drifted down from upstairs. Carefully Ruth crossed the sitting room and mounted the stairs on silent feet, treading lightly and holding her breath all the while. On the landing she hesitated; as far as she could tell, no one was stirring, but she had not seen David since early that morning, and somewhere deep in her heart an alarm bell was sounding. She could never recall a time when David had spent an entire day away from the pub, regardless of how much he'd had to drink the night before; he could hold his whiskey, and he loved that pub more than anyone or anything else in the world. And it was strange, too, that none of his other friends had put in an appearance; surely they couldn't all be ill? It seemed to her to be too easy, too convenient, and the sharp taste of fear filled her mouth. What if he hadn't been home at all? What if he was out there, even now, plotting something horrible, something that might hurt James?

Ruth was by nature respecting of other people's boundaries; she who valued her own privacy so highly did not lightly infringe upon the solitude of others. But she had to know, had to see David snoring away beneath the duvet in order to assuage her own doubts, her own fears. No matter how wrong it may have felt, she knew she could not have carried on without at least checking to see that he was where he was meant to be. She might catch hell, if David woke and found her leering at him through the darkness, but it would be better to face his wrath than to spend the rest of her life wondering if she were living with a dangerous man.

Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves and steady her hand, Ruth eased open the door to David and Elizabeth's bedroom, and peeked inside.

It took a moment, for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, to begin to pick out the different shapes inside the room. There was the bureau, and there was the window, and there was the little bedside table with the battered old lamp perched precariously atop it.

And there, in the center of the bed, sleeping soundly and utterly alone, was Elizabeth.

With her heartbeat now roaring louder than the sea in her ears Ruth closed the door behind her, and stood for a moment shaking like a leaf in the hall. She had to get to James, but it was several moments before she found the strength to move her feet. Once she did she took off running, tearing out of the house and making a beeline for the pub. Up the stairs, across the hall to his door she ran, breathing like a bellows all the while, feeling as if her heart would surely pound its way of her chest, so ferocious was the tempo of its beat. She knocked smartly on the door and waited impatiently, bouncing from one foot to the other, but there came no sound of gentle footfalls. A moment passed, and she knocked again, but still there was no sign of James. It was only as she raised her hand to knock a third time that she noticed the slip of paper wedged in the crack of the door.

With a gasp she reached for it, tugging it free and unfolding it to read its message hungrily.

 _Ruth,_ it said, _had to go out. Couldn't be avoided. All is well. Wait for me? James x_

Ruth spun, pressing her back flat to the door as her legs gave out from underneath her and she slowly slid to the ground.

* * *

Sullivan was waiting for him by the fence that surrounded the shipping yard, his features unreadable through the gloom. The day's rain had given way to a thick fog that lay heavily on everything in sight, obscuring Harry's vision and leaving him feeling rather jumpy as a result. This wasn't part of the plan; he was never meant to go near the docks himself, but he didn't have enough time to ring one of the other lads to send in his place, and besides, he wasn't sure it was worth the risk. If Sullivan was playing him, Harry would need to keep the identities of the rest of his team a secret, in order to ensure that the mission could continue on, regardless of what fate had in store for Harry himself.

"What's happening?" Harry asked softly as he drew level with Sullivan. The lad peered at him through the darkness, relaxing at the sound of Harry's voice.

"It's the container," Sullivan whispered back. "I need a hand getting it open. Thought I could do it myself, but the door's too heavy."

There was a gap in the fence behind them, and Sullivan turned to it now, pulling back the twisted metal lattice and holding it up for Harry to slip underneath. Every instinct Harry had was telling him to run, fast, and never look back; everything about this moment screamed _trap._ And yet the siren song of discovery called him on. All his hopes rested on that container, finding out what was inside and who it was meant for. As far as he was concerned there was no other choice, and so he squared his shoulders, and proceeded.

"This way," Sullivan said once they were through. He was a stocky lad, a bit shorter than Harry with lank blonde hair hanging down around his ears. There was nothing overtly duplicitous in his manner, and Harry reminded himself that Ruth had recommended him; surely Sullivan wouldn't betray him. Not now. Not yet.

"Could do with a bloody torch," Harry grumbled as he fell into step behind Sullivan, carefully picking his way along the dirt path.

"Too risky," Sullivan disagreed. "There's security patrolling down here, we don't want to draw their attention. Best not to speak."

Feeling suitably chastised Harry held his tongue, and focused all his energy on listening. He could hear the gentle wash of the water on the shore, the creaking of anchor lines from the ships off in the distance. He could hear the crunch of Sullivan's shoes, and silently cursed the lad; the ground was soft, after the day's rain, and he couldn't fathom how it was that the young man in front of him could possibly make so much noise. _Unless it's deliberate,_ a suspicious voice echoed in the back of his mind. The air was still and dense, and the containers loomed around them like unholy mountains, their shapes distorted by the fog. There were no signs to mark the way, to identify the myriad paths that branched off to the left and right, but Sullivan seemed to know where he was going, and Harry had no choice but to trust him. Still, though, he took note of each of their turnings, not wanting to find himself lost should all hell break loose.

The threat of calamity seemed to hang in the air, and Harry felt it as a physical weight upon his chest. _This is wrong,_ he thought bleakly. _I shouldn't be here._ Still, though, he did not stop, could not stop. He would see this thing through to its conclusion. Whatever the cost.

Finally, they reached the container in question. It was a massive steel beast, just off to the side of their path. Harry had never realized before this moment quite how bloody big those containers really were; they were much more impressive up close than they were when stacked on the ships, seen only from a distance. He understood now why Sullivan had asked for help.

"I've already unlocked it," Sullivan whispered, reaching out to catch the heavy bolt in his hands.

 _Nothing for it now,_ Harry told himself, and so he took up his position next to his compatriot. Their gazes caught and held for a moment, and Sullivan gave him a little nod.

They heaved with everything they had, straining for a long moment before the door began to give way. And when it did, it let forth an almighty screeching noise as the rusted hinges protested against the unexpected movement. Harry jumped back in alarm, but the damage was done; the door swung wide, and beyond the mouth of the container yawned like some vast haunted cave, dark and foreboding.

"You think someone heard?" Sullivan asked him anxiously.

Harry stared down at him, incredulous. "I think they heard it in all the way in London," he said faintly. "We need to get out of here." He cast his eye about him warily, his every muscle wound tight as a spring, ready to take off running at the first sign of trouble. Trouble seemed rather imminent, just then.

"Not yet," Sullivan said, scrambling in his pockets and producing a small torch. "We've come this far." With a trembling hand he extended the torch to Harry.

That was a step too far. Though he could put aside his instinct for self preservation to a certain point, there was no way in hell Harry was going to go climbing into that container, not after the racket they'd just made. Likely every man still working the docks was even now converging on them with murder and mayhem in their minds, and he had no interest in being trapped in a box when they came for him.

"You go," Harry said gruffly. "I'll keep an eye out. Be ready to run."

Sullivan swallowed hard, his eyes a little wild in the soft glow of the torch. "Right," he said in a shaky voice.

To demonstrate just how committed he was to keeping his feet firmly on the ground Harry backed away a pace or two, withdrawing from the feeble light and fading into the shadows beside the container. "Go on, lad," he said. "I'll look after you."

Sullivan nodded, and walked into the container on leaden feet.

Now utterly alone in the darkness Harry focused on his breathing, standing still as a stone and listening with all his might. There were no voices on the wind, no tramp of angry feet, just the eerie, unearthly quiet. No shapes appeared in the swirling grey fog, and he felt himself relax infinitesimally.

It was very nearly his undoing.

He had taken a step forward, intent on peaking into the container and calling out to his asset when he caught sight of something moving at the end of the path. And then, before he could move, before he could so much as breathe, they were upon him.

Six men, dressed in dark clothes, four of them carrying torches, two of them carrying guns. In the lead came Connor Kelly and David Shaw; the sight of the pub proprietor casually clutching a heavy black handgun as if this were something he did every Saturday night made Harry's blood run cold. He hadn't counted on that, hadn't even for a moment considered that Shaw would be involved in whatever Kelly was cooking up. Had his fondness for Ruth blinded him, made him more pleasantly disposed to the man for the sake of his connection to her?

Harry didn't have long to wonder; they had spotted the container, and in response to a gesture from Kelly they began to fan out on silent feet. There was no bloody _time;_ Harry retreated further into the shadows, berating himself for leaving Sullivan alone even as he swung behind the container to his left. He crept up along the outside of the second container, close enough to listen but far enough away to stay out of sight, beyond the semicircle of violence that had formed on the path. Much as he might long to step out, to defend the young man whose very life seemed to hang in the balance, he held his tongue. There was every possibility he'd get them both shot, if he showed his face now; maybe they would show mercy, when they discovered who was inside. Maybe Sullivan could talk his way out of this, given the opportunity. Harry didn't know, didn't have any way to know, but his long years of spying told him that showing his face now would do more harm than good.

 _Stay quiet,_ he thought, as if he could somehow communicate with Sullivan inside the container. _Stay still, maybe they won't-_

Connor Kelly cocked his gun with a soft _click._

"That you, mate?" Sullivan called in response.

Harry held his breath, cursing himself and his ill luck as Shaw and Kelly exchanged a single glance. Then, before he could move, before he could speak, the two men moved as one, and slammed the door to the container closed.

Dimly he could hear the sound of Sullivan running along the length of the container, pounding on the door; the noise was feeble, though, well insulated inside the metal walls of the box that Harry feared might well become his coffin.

 _Maybe not,_ he told himself. _Maybe they'll just leave him there, try to teach him a lesson, and I can get him out later._

It was a foolish hope, he knew, but he could not bear the thought of once more having to leave a good man to die for the sake of his operation. Bill Crombie's face floated before his eyes in the darkness, and he had to shake his head to clear the vision and the dread it instilled in him.

"Pull back, boys," Kelly said, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. They were leaving, after all.

Harry counted his heartbeats as Kelly and his cohort drew back from the container, fading one by one into the shadows. Kelly was the last to depart; Harry watched, bemused, as the man stopped, and pulled something from his pocket.

It took only a fraction of a second, for the implication of what Kelly held in his hand to permeate Harry's brain, and it was that instant of clarity that saved his life. Harry took off running, faster than he ever had before, trying to put as much distance between himself and that container as he could. As it was, it was barely enough; the concussive force of the explosion sent him hurtling to the ground, though he was over a hundred meters away when it hit. His head struck the dirt, hard, his ears ringing like a bell as the heat washed over him, fragments of the container spilling down all around him like some terrible cursed rain.

For a moment Harry simply lay, stunned and completely shocked. _Oh Christ, they killed him_ , he thought in a distracted, removed sort of way. _He was just a kid, and they killed him._

Reality came back to him with a roar, his heart pounding thunderously in his chest as his own survival instinct took over everything else, and without conscious thought he found himself on his feet once more, tearing like a madman down the paths. His thoughts were scrambled, his feet moving on autopilot as he tried to get as far away from the wreckage of the container and the murderous bastards who'd destroyed it as he could, while also desperately trying to find the fence. After two minutes, he was utterly, hopelessly lost.


	33. Chapter 33

**23 March 1985**

Ruth could not say for certain how long she sat like that, propped up against the door to James's room, shaking like a leaf. Terror and doubt swirled within her, constricting her throat, making it difficult to think, to breathe. She blinked back tears of blind desperation, the words scrawled on James's note slipping in and out of focus, blurry and unintelligible. Somehow, though she could not say exactly why or how, she was certain that wherever James had gone, David was sure to be as well. It wasn't like David to disappear in the middle of the night, and it wasn't like Connor Kelly to let a Saturday night pass without getting piss drunk in the pub. Something evil was afoot, she knew, but she could think of no way to stop it. There was no way to know where they'd gone, or when, or to what end, but the thought of simply sitting there, waiting for horror to rain down upon her, was unbearable to Ruth. She came back to herself slowly, as the realization of her own precarious position began to permeate the fog that swirled through her mind. At some point David would come home; what would happen, should he discover that Ruth was not safely tucked in her bed? George and Sean and Ryan all seemed to know that something was happening between Ruth and James; she shuddered to think what sort of havoc David would wreak, should he suspect the same. Much as it galled her, she needed to get home, and quickly, before anyone discovered where she'd been.

As quickly as her legs would carry her Ruth ran down the stairs, grabbing a pen from the desk in the foyer and writing a note of her own.

 _James,_ it said, _have gone home. I am well. STAY AWAY FROM DAVID. Your friend xx_

It would have to do; she could not sign her name, not now, when so much seemed to hang in the balance. The last thing she needed was for David or someone else to go snooping, and see that she had been scribbling notes to James. She folded the paper up and ran back up the stairs, slipping it beneath his door. Her heart ached for him, not knowing where he was, what was happening, whether he was safe, but she could not protect him if she brought David's wrath down upon herself, and so she once more clambered down the stairs, and slipped through the side door and out into the night.

The fog was heavy, dense and impenetrable, and in that ethereal world of swirling grey shadows even the short walk to her home seemed an impossible journey. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, shivering in the chill damp and trying to tamp down on the rising sense of dread that bubbled up within her.

 _It's fine,_ she told herself sternly as she began to pick her way carefully along the path. _Go home, go to your room, and stay there. Everything will be better, come morning. James will be fine._

He lived a dangerous life, she knew. He had been shot and stabbed and kicked and punched and - she suspected, though he had not told her the truth of the red welts on his lower back - burned as well. And through all of the atrocities his body had suffered, he had survived, had defeated his enemies and lived to tell the tale, a tapestry of bravery and horror painting his skin. He had faced worse than David Shaw and Connor Kelly, and Ruth knew she had no choice but to believe in him.

She was no more than ten meters from her front door when a body came hurtling through the fog, making straight for her; she very nearly screamed, as two strong hands reached out and caught her by the shoulders, but the scream died in her throat when she realized who had accosted her.

"Ruth!" George gasped. He was breathing like a bellows; clearly, wherever he'd come from, he'd run the whole way. "Thank God you're all right."

"George?" Ruth demanded, jerking herself out of his grasp. "What the hell do you think you're doing, running around scaring people in the middle of the night?"

"Where is he?" George asked, ignoring her completely. There was no need for Ruth to ask who he meant; one look at his face, at the fear in his eyes, told her everything she needed to know.

"I don't know," she said. "Really," she insisted, seeing the doubtful expression George gave her. "He left, I don't know when, and he hasn't come back."

"Shit," George muttered, running his hand over his face.

"What's going on, George?" This time Ruth did not speak to him harshly; it was clear that he was frightened, that he was worried, and that worry communicated itself to Ruth. He had always treated her kindly, and she saw no need to be cruel to him, not now, not when he was as powerless as she to hold off the coming storm.

"I don't know," he said, echoing her in word and tone. "Ryan's at mine, he passed out about an hour ago. But before he did, he was bragging about his da, said that tan's going to get what's coming to him."

"What did he say?" This was no ordinary fear, no ordinary concern; Ruth felt herself in the grip of a terror the likes of which she had never known. Over the few short months of their acquaintance James had become everything to her, the center of her world, the warmest sunlight shining in the dreary winter of her life, and she could not bear the thought of something happening to him, not now, not if she could stop it.

"Something about fireworks on the docks," George said slowly.

It wasn't much to go on, but it was enough for Ruth; she reached up, kissed his cheek, and then spun away from him, running like mad for the dockyard.

"Ruth! No, Ruth! Wait!" George cried out in alarm, racing off after her, but Ruth was smaller, lighter, and much faster than he. Love gave her wings, as all thoughts of her own safety deserted her and the need to find James overcame everything else.

* * *

 _Shit,_ Harry thought as he trudged along the muddy path. _Shit._

The panic that had gripped in the immediate aftermath of the explosion had receded, and now he was thinking much more clearly, for all the good it did him. His mad flight had sent him off in the opposite direction from the hole in the fence he'd used to enter the shipping yard, and now he was lost amidst a sea of containers, with no landmarks to guide him. Even the stars were hidden from view, beneath the shroud of fog. He could hear no sound of pursuit, but this did not fill him with confidence; his enemy was much more familiar with these narrow winding paths than he, and they had demonstrated their ability to move quietly when needed. No doubt he would not see or hear them, before they fell on him.

He needed to reach the fence that lined the perimeter; even if he could not get back to his original entry point, just reaching the fence would be enough. He had a small, sharp knife in his pocket, and could make a hole big enough to slip through, if only he could find the bloody thing. The only problem was that he had no notion of the dimensions of the shipping yard, did not know which direction he was traveling, or how far he would have to go to reach the edge. And he could not keep moving in a straight line; the path kept forking, coming to a stop in front of another huge blue container time and time again. So he tried to breathe deeply, and focus on the sound of the ships at sea; if he could make it to the water, he could find his way out, he was sure.

It was a risky maneuver, he knew; likely there were more people and more lights along the water's edge, and the possibility of discovery increased there. He had no other signpost to guide him, however, and so he continued on, heading towards the siren song of the ships creaking in their berths.

Luck was on his side tonight, however; he reached a forking in the path, and heard the gentle sound of the fence clinking, as if someone had run their hand along it. He turned right, barrelling towards the sound, cursing himself for not bringing a torch of his own. Sullivan's had been lost along with him.

 _Don't think about that now,_ he told himself firmly. Hysteria was brewing, just on the edges of his consciousness, Bill's voice ringing in his head like a bell, but he could not fall to pieces, not now, not yet. Whatever sort of breakdown might be coming for him, it would have to wait until he was safely back in his bed.

There came a soft sound from up ahead, and for a moment he was certain that he heard a small voice whispering sadly, _oh, James._

 _Christ, I am losing it,_ he thought grimly. Now was not the time to come undone, to lose himself in dreams of Ruth, the warmth of her, the gentle touch of her hand. He needed to focus -

 _Where are you,_ _a stór mo chroí?_ The whisper sounded again in the darkness, and just up ahead he caught the gleam of the fence, his heart leaping in his chest.

"Ruth?" he gasped as he drew level with the fence.

There on the other side, pale as a ghost in the swirling fog, stood Ruth, the dearest longing of his heart.

"James," she all but sobbed, her shoulders sagging when she saw him as the tension left her all at once. "Oh, thank God, I've been so worried."

He could have leapt in the air and shouted for glee, so great was the relief that filled him upon seeing her, this angel come to rescue him in his time of need. She was _real_ , she was here, and the tinkling sound of her hand upon the chain link fence had guided him safely through the labyrinth.

Before he could celebrate his freedom, however, he needed to get them both far away, and so he did not waste time in exulting; he pulled his knife, and broke through the fence as quickly as he could, swearing quietly all the while. Once he had made an opening big enough to step through he pocketed his knife, and walked straight into Ruth's arms, crushing her against his chest as her head came to rest just beneath his chin.

"I'm here, love," he murmured against her hair as she trembled in his embrace. "I'm here. I'm safe. It's all right."

"I have to tell you," she said, speaking directly to his chest, unwilling it seemed to release him even for a moment. "David-"

"I know," he cut her off quickly. _Oh, shit,_ he realized suddenly, _David._

"We have to get you home, now," he barked, disentangling himself from her and taking her hand, dragging her off into the darkness. He didn't know where David had gone, if the man was still wandering amongst the containers or even now on his way home, but wherever Shaw had gone, Harry needed to get Ruth to her bed before he discovered her missing. Harry shuddered to think what might happen, should David discover his step-daughter in the arms of the Englishman he'd tried to murder less than an hour before.

* * *

As they stumbled along James filled her in on what had happened, David and Kelly and the guns and poor Sullivan's fate. His voice had cracked, just a little, when he told her that the lad was dead, the sheer devastation radiating from him in waves. Though he tried, quite hard, to pretend that he was strong, that nothing shook him, Ruth knew better; he had a heart, the same as any man, a heart that could be moved by the love of a beautiful woman, by guilt over the loss of a friend, and she worried for that heart now, worried what sort of damage had been inflicted upon it, even as she flinched away from her own feelings. She had recommended Sullivan to James, had suggested that he would be good a man to aid James on his mission, and Sullivan had paid for her recommendation with his life. If it weren't for her, he would still be breathing; the thought was so heavy, so awful, so bleak, so soul-crushing in its horror that she could not bear to dwell on it, not now, not when they were still so very far from the relative safety of home.

"Do they know you were there?" she asked him as they drew ever nearer to the pub.

"I don't know," James answered softly. They were walking, so as not to draw attention to themselves, her hand clasped tight within his own. "At the very least they suspect, but I don't think they saw me. They might well think I was the one…" his voice trailed off, but he had no need to continue; Ruth could finish the thought for him. She squeezed his hand once, in a silent show of support.

"When we get back," James said, not looking at her but instead keeping his gaze fixed upon the ground before their feet, "you go straight up to bed. Is there a way to climb through your window?"

Ruth nodded, somewhat dazed; there was a trellis leaning up against the side of the house, old and quite sturdy, and it would act as a ladder, carrying her straight up to her bedroom window, a window that did not lock. It would be easy enough, to clamber up and into her room. Peter had done it a time or two; there was no such easy access to his bedroom, and he had made use of that avenue to come and go without drawing their parents' suspicion, despite Ruth's protests.

"Ok. I'll wait for you to get inside. Once you're there, don't come out until morning. And don't approach me. Don't speak to me for the next few days, ok?"

Abruptly Ruth stopped walking, pulling James up short beside her. Though she understood the reasons for his decree it left a bad taste in her mouth; she wanted nothing more than to go home with him, to fall into bed with him, to hold him until the sun rose and the demons of the night returned to the darkness from whence they came. To her horror, she felt the prick of tears at the corners of her eyes.

"James," she said softly, reaching out to smooth her hand down his chest, feeling the rising and falling of his body beneath her touch as he breathed.

"It'll be all right, Ruth," he told her, lifting the hand he still cradled and dropping a gentle kiss on the back of it. "It's just for a few days. I can look after myself, but I need to know that you're safe."

Ruth couldn't bear it, the tender tone of his voice, the fear that gripped her, the chaos that had become her life; she flung her arms around his neck, pulled him close, and kissed him with everything she had, saying with her lips and tongue those words she could not bring herself to speak aloud.

 _I love you,_ her kiss said. _I love you, and I cannot bear to apart from you._

"Promise me you'll be careful," she whispered against his mouth.

"I promise," he replied, kissing her even harder. For a few brief moments they lost themselves in one another, in hoping that the words he had just spoken were the truth, and not another lie. It was not enough, not nearly enough to assuage the guilt and the fear that threatened to consume them, but it was all they had.

* * *

Harry stood on the grass beside the house and waited while Ruth clambered up the trellis, hardly daring to breathe until she lifted the window, shot him one final, wistful glance, and slipped inside. Once he was assured that she was safe, his feet carried him back to the pub, up the stairs and into his room. He heaved the little dresser across the carpet and used it to block the door, then went to check the window. It was locked, and the room was on the second floor, with no trellis or similar handhold to guide intruders to his room; no one would be coming through there this evening. Thus assured he laid down on his stomach beside the bed, wriggling around until he caught hold of the bag he had hidden there. From inside the bag he withdrew a small handgun, checked that it was loaded, and then rose to his feet once more. All this he did without thought, going through the motions as the last tattered shreds of his self-control began to vanish into the ether.

Gun in hand he went into the en suite, closing and locking the door behind him, and starting the shower. He peeled his sweat- and fog-dampened clothes from his body, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and stepped into the shower, the gun resting just on the ledge within easy reach. There beneath the steady stream of water he allowed himself to break, shaking from his head to his toes as he gasped for breath like a fish wrestled from the sea and held aloft for sport. He kept the water cool, as dark spots danced in front of his eyes, the words _he's dead he's dead he's dead_ swirling round and round inside his mind.

Harry had only ever gone to pieces like this once before, the day Bill Crombie had died; Connie James had found him curled in a ball in the bathtub of her little flat, muttering insensibly. Connie had been good to him, had coaxed him out and into his clothes, pumped him full of whiskey and kept watch over him while he slept, but she was not here to save him now. There was only guilt, the soul-destroying guilt of having betrayed another colleague, of having sent another man to his death, the hopeless, helpless self-loathing choking the life from him with each strangled breath he took. The last words Harry had spoken to Sullivan were _I'll look after you;_ Harry had _lied_ , had convinced the lad that he was safe, so long as Harry was there, and Sullivan had paid the price, had died horrifically in a hellstorm of fire and damnation. He had said much the same to Ruth, had promised her that he would keep her safe; he knew, somewhere deep in his heart, that he could not protect her from the storm that was coming, and as her face danced before his eyes he wept. He could not shake the sense that by loving her, by taking her into his bed, into his confidences, he had as good as killed her already. _She would be better off if she'd never met me,_ he thought grimly, even as Jane's face replaced Ruth's in his thoughts. _Christ, Jane;_ the woman who had married him, had comforted him, had borne his children, the one woman he had wronged more than any other.

For months now he had barely spared a thought for his family, but as his knees gave way and he crumpled to the shower floor he silently begged their forgiveness, for all the horrible things he had done, all the horrible things he had yet to do. _What kind of man_ , he asked himself, _puts his wife through so much grief? What kind of a man leaves a boy alone to die in fire and pain? What kind of monster am I?_

He feared the answer to those questions.


	34. Chapter 34

**18 July 2006**

After he left the warmth and quiet of Ruth's embrace, Harry had found himself momentarily at a loose end. What was he supposed to do, when the whole day stretched out empty before him and his heart longed for nothing so much as to find his way back to Ruth's bed once more? He had asked her to dinner, and she had agreed, but he knew that any contact between them before the appointed time would be foolish at best. Maren was sniffing around, offended and uncertain as only a twenty year old girl could be, and Ryan Kelly was on the warpath; having already accosted Ruth in the carpark once, he seemed to be gleefully looking for any excuse to cause mayhem. Harry felt he had brought enough grief to Ruth already, and he had no interest in adding to the burdens she carried.

So it was that he set out once more, wandering aimlessly through the city. It was in his mind to walk down to the restaurant he had in mind for their dinner, and make the reservation in person. Having no other plans for the day, it seemed to him to be the best use of his time, and so he set off on foot.

As he walked along, the taste of Ruth still lingering faintly in his mouth, he thought about her, and about their rather unexpected, rather magnificent reunion in her bed that morning. He hadn't necessarily intended for things to escalate quite to that point, when he knocked upon her door, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. There were all sorts of questions to be answered; would he have another chance to hold her, to whisper his love for her in her ear, what would happen when his time in Galway came to a close, what the hell was she thinking about their situation now? They hadn't discussed it much, lying close together, her hand drawing patterns on his chest, and, true to form, Ruth had not returned his whispered declaration of love. Harry's mind buzzed as he walked, trying to see some way through it, some way for him to keep her in his life once this was done and he was recalled to London. It wasn't so very far to travel, he mused, from London to Galway; he could make the trip once every few months, spend a few nights in her bed, laughing and drinking in the pub, getting to know Maren. There was something intoxicating about that dream, about the thought of having both his great loves, his job and Ruth, in his life at once. And he rather thought that arrangement might suit Ruth, who was so fiercely independent, who craved her own personal space; surely she wouldn't want a man moving into her house, disrupting the routines she had so painstakingly cultivated for herself, making a mess in the bathroom and constantly forgetting to take out the rubbish. And maybe, if they avoided the messy domestic complications of being a true couple, maybe the passion, the ferocity of their desire for one another would not fade. Maybe Harry would not lose her as he had lost Jane, to the endless marching of time and the inevitable distance his job established between him and those he loved.

Truth be told, though, Harry wasn't really sure what Ruth wanted from him, and this tainted his daydreams of their could-be life together somewhat. He would need to ask her, he knew, would need to talk to her about what it was they were doing, what the future might hold for them, but he rather thought it was much too early in their reacquaintance for him to be asking such questions, and so he decided to hold his tongue and wait, impatient as he was to have the answers his heart so desperately sought. Harry rather liked dealing in absolutes, rather liked finding clear and obvious solutions, rather liked being in control, and relinquishing that control was difficult for him.

It was difficult, too, to find himself faced with so much free time, so much time for thinking, and so little that needed doing. For his entire adult life Harry had been a busy man, fielding phone calls from Prime Ministers and Home Secretaries on his infrequent holidays and running like a madman every minute he was working. Most days he was in the office before 7:00 a.m. and lingered there until well after dark, wading through paperwork and endless meetings and standing watch during nail-biting operations, and he had become rather accustomed to being the center of activity, the calm eye in the midst of the storm. This being relegated to the sidelines, forced to wait for intelligence, knowing his input was neither needed nor welcomed, galled him.

He had not quite reached the restaurant when his mobile buzzed in his pocket; he slipped into a convenient alleyway, discreetly removing himself from earshot of any of his fellow pedestrians, and promptly answered the call.

"Pearce," he barked.

"Sir Harry," came the answer. "It's Samuel Burns."

At those words Harry felt himself immediately on the alert, his heart-rate picking up and his skin prickling with that sense of anticipation. Perhaps Burns had some news for him, perhaps now he might finally feel as if they were making some progress.

"Mr. Burns," Harry said. "How goes it?"

"Not bloody good," Burns grumbled. "We've been reviewing the surveillance from the docks. I know you and this Marion of yours are worried about Ryan Kelly, but to be honest with you, based on these tapes, he seems like just a run of the mill gobshite to me. Ostensibly he's in charge, but he spends most of his time sitting in the office playing card games on the computer - quite badly, actually. That man doesn't know the first thing about online poker."

Harry very nearly chuckled at that, but it was a dark sound that left him, a sound devoid of mirth. Burns's report sounded in character for Ryan, he thought; Ryan had always been the sort of man who overstated his own importance, who gave orders and made threats but only rarely followed through. Ryan Kelly preferred to let others do the dirty work, while he claimed the credit.

"His brother does most of the heavy lifting," Burns continued. "Sean's the one who actually lends a hand when work needs doing, and when the workers have a problem, it's Sean they speak to about it. I can't see where Ryan actually does any work at all, to be honest with you."

"I'm not surprised," Harry said. During his previous trip to Galway he'd never once even spoken to Sean Kelly, but he'd heard plenty about the lad, mostly praise for his work ethic and his level head. Whatever his brother's failings, Sean seemed to be a good egg.

"I did hear something interesting though," Burns said, something eager in his tone. Harry fought the urge to groan; this was getting to be a habit with Burns, this teasing, leisurely sharing of information. Harry hated time-wasters, he always had done. There was no relief in sight, however; Burns was clearly waiting for him to speak.

"Oh?" he grumbled.

"Late last night, two of the lads were talking. There's a container coming in tomorrow night, and they were saying the boss wanted them to keep it on the quiet. They were complaining about having to unload in the dark, apparently that's not the sort of thing they usually do."

At those words Harry felt his blood run cold, a shock of fear travelling up his spine as he recalled the violent night he'd spent in the dockyard, the sound of the explosion that had killed young Sullivan echoing in his ears. That night had been a cock-up from start to finish; with age and experience came wisdom, and the Harry of the present day, the one who had seen so much grief, had made so very many mistakes, would never have been as reckless as the young man he'd been, following Sullivan down those dark paths despite his own misgivings. He had learned to trust his instincts, at great personal cost.

"What are you planning to do about it?" Harry asked carefully. Burns wasn't his agent, and this call was just a courtesy, really; it wouldn't do, to step on toes, but Harry could not bear the thought of losing another young man to senseless violence, not if he could stop it. He carried enough guilt as it was.

"I was thinking about taking a team down to the docks, and seeing what those lads are up to."

"No," Harry cut in before he could stop himself. "That's not a good move. You're forgetting, the shipyard is a maze, and these men know those paths by heart. Chances are you'd get turned around in there, and when they find you, they'd show no mercy. They have weapons at their disposal, and they've proven they're willing to do whatever it takes to protect themselves. Going in there at night would be tantamount to suicide."

"Maybe," Burns said in a tone of voice that said all too plainly that he thought Harry was overreacting. "Or they're just little fish who don't know what the big fish are getting up to. Might be we could get them to turn on the boss."

"Or get yourselves blown to hell," Harry muttered.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a long moment, and when Burns spoke again, some of the cocky self-assurance was gone from his voice.

"What do you know that I don't, Sir Harry?"

"Twenty years ago Ryan Kelly's father and his goons blew up a container with a young asset of mine inside. They knew the lad was in there. They'd laid the trap, and they did not so much as hesitate. That's the sort of men you're dealing with here."

"That was the father. Might be the son's not quite so reckless."

Harry did laugh, this time. "Reckless is Ryan Kelly's middle name."

Burns sighed heavily. "We have to know what's on that container, though. We can't risk them moving the cargo overnight, and lose the one lead we've got. I understand your concerns, and I'll bring armed backup. But we have to go in."

Though the other man could not see him, Harry gave a resigned little nod. Burns was not his agent, and he did not have the power to override his decision. Even if it had been within his authority, Harry wasn't entirely sure that he would have stopped the lad; Burns was right. This might well be the only chance they'd get to catch Kelly and his men red-handed. "Very well," he said. "Keep me informed."

"I will, Sir Harry," Burns replied. And with that he ended the call, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

The memories lingered, haunted Harry's steps throughout the long day, as he made his way to the restaurant, and then on down the lane to a bookshop where he lost himself for a time in the peace and quiet, purchasing a gift for Ruth on a whim and trying with all his might to relax. This was not his operation, and if it failed, well, he had warned against it. There was no more he could do.

* * *

"Right, I'm off," Ryan said, and across the bar Ruth fought the urge to sigh in relief. It had been an awkward evening, to say the least, between Ryan's barbed jibes and Sean's hungry eyes following her progress up and down the length of the bar. She could not escape them; like some sort of black hole they drew all the attention, all the activity of the bar to themselves, as other customers stopped by to chat with them awhile and Ryan kept up a constant string of demands. At least it was only a Tuesday, and so the dining room wasn't particularly crowded, and Ryan did not linger as long as he might have. He was a twat, but he was a twat who was obsessed with his own position, his own sense of power, and as such he never missed a day of work.

Sean shook his brother's hand. "I'll see you in the morning, mate," he said. "I just want to finish this." He lifted his whiskey glass, still half-full, and took a slow sip.

"Yeah. Have a good night, Ruthie," Ryan added as he stumbled to his feet, his trademark sneer firmly in place. "Give our best to your Maren."

"I will," Ruth lied, as he dawdled and took his time about the business of departing. _Oh, just bloody leave already,_ she thought crossly, taking out her aggression on the bar-top as she scrubbed ferociously at a spill.

Once he was gone she found no relief, however; it was getting on towards midnight, and she realized with a start that Sean Kelly was the only guest left in the pub. He was just staring at her, watching her every move over the rim of his glass, and the prickling sensation of his eyes on the back of her neck left Ruth feeling vaguely ill. It was clear to her what Sean wanted; he often came to her on weeknights, lingering, waiting for a chance to take her home with him without arousing suspicion. Tonight was no different; that sense of anticipation hung heavy in the air, but Ruth had no interest in entertaining him this evening. He was a nice enough man, polite, circumspect, not particularly chatty, and she knew he would think nothing of it, should she decline his offer, but still, she fretted. _Has Ryan told him?_ She wondered. _Does he know that Harry's back?_

Though Sean had never mentioned it during the time they spent together, Ruth knew that in the past he'd had his suspicions as regarded her relationship with Harry. She didn't fancy revisiting the one strange conversation they'd had about it, so many years before. She didn't fancy speaking to him at all.

"All right, Ruth?" Sean asked her, when she showed him no attention despite their solitude. His voice was low and warm; he did have a rather lovely voice, she thought glumly. A nice, deep voice, and nice, strong hands, and nice, broad shoulders; altogether, Sean presented an appealing package, only somewhat marred by the fact that he did not love her, never showed her any affection until she was safely tucked up in his bed.

"Fair enough," she answered carefully. Though she longed to run from the room her deeply ingrained sense of courtesy would not allow her to ignore him forever, and so she squared her shoulders, and made her way back down to his end of the bar.

"Ryan told me something interesting, earlier today," Sean continued as she approached, running one thick, calloused finger carelessly around the rim of his glass, his eyes watching her like a hawk all the while. Ruth felt her stomach drop away at those words, but she kept her chin up and tried to keep the fear from showing on her face, no matter how it might threaten to consume her.

"Oh?" she asked, leaning against the edge of the bar in what she hoped was a casual sort of way.

"He said your friend Mr. Harrison is back in town."

 _Shit._

"Oh. He is. Just passing through, I think. We haven't spoken much."

Though it was difficult to discern his expression beneath his grey beard, she rather thought she saw a smile flit across his face. It did not seem to her to be a friendly smile.

"I find that hard to believe. He was rather fond of you last time he was here, wasn't he?"

 _What the hell is he playing at?_ Ruth wondered. The last time Sean had spoken of Harry to her he had come to issue her a warning on the night that Harry very nearly lost his life. Had he come to offer his assistance once more? Or was he simply jealous, to think that the woman who shared his bed was enjoying the attentions of another man?

"It's been a long time, Sean," Ruth said softly. "I hardly even know the man. I'm not looking for trouble."

In what was for him a rather bold gesture, Sean reached across the bar and caught her hand in his own. Before tonight, before she'd fallen into bed with Harry again, felt him moving inside her again, felt him whisper his love to her again, Ruth might have welcomed such an advance from him. She might have considered, even if only for a moment, giving more of her heart to Sean than she had ever had before, might have entertained the notion that they could be properly together. As it was, though, his touch only repulsed her. She had well and truly fallen under Harry's spell once more, and his was the only hand she longed to hold. Still, though, she did not pull away; she did not want to give Sean cause to doubt her.

"I don't want to see you get hurt, Ruth," Sean told her quietly. "That man is trouble, and I think you know it. Whether you want him or not, I can't imagine he's not interested in you."

"Sean-"

"You might tell him," Sean continued, his eyes on her face while his thumb gently stroked the back of her hand and her heart pounded double time in her chest, "that his bearded friend is in danger. You might tell him to steer clear of the docks."

So he had come to deliver a warning after all, Ruth realized, feeling rather faint. The last time he had come to her Harry had very nearly been blown to bits in the dockyard; what would happen if she did not pass along his warning now? Who was this bearded friend? What did Sean know?

"Please, Sean," she begged him, leaning towards him and tightening her grip on his hand, "if you know something, just tell me. Please don't let anyone else get hurt. We can stop this now-"

He brought her up short, rising from his chair abruptly and reaching across the bar to cradle her face in his free hand.

"You're a good girl, Ruth," he said, his voice somehow sad. "I know you mean well. If you want to keep him safe, keep him away from the docks."

And then his hand dropped away from her. He lifted her hand to his lips, dropped a tender kiss there, and then departed, all in silence. In his wake Ruth was left trembling, doubt and fear swirling inside her. She had to get to Harry; he had not come back to the pub as far as she was aware, but he'd given her his mobile number. Her feet carried her across the room on autopilot, locking the door through which Sean had only just departed, and in the shattering silence she fished her mobile from her apron pocket and rang Harry at once.

Mercifully, he answered on the first ring.

"Pearce," he said, and the gruff sound of his voice, that reassurance that he was alive and well, filled her with such relief that she very nearly burst into tears on the spot.

"It's Ruth," she said, all in a rush. "I have to speak to you, now. Where are you?"

"In my room," he answered slowly. "I slipped in through the side door about an hour ago. Are you all right?"

"I'm on my way up," she answered, ending the call and turning towards the stairs. Maybe this time, she thought as she went, she could stop the calamity before it even began. Maybe this time they would be lucky.


	35. Chapter 35

**18 July 2006**

Harry paced by the door, waiting for Ruth to make her way up the stairs and into his room. It was late, and as such he had been dressed for bed - or rather, undressed for bed. The moment Ruth had ended the call he'd pulled on his trousers, but he'd not bothered with finding a shirt, choosing instead to spend those few short moments lost in his worries over what she might have to tell him. When she'd spoken her voice had been high and scared, shaking just a little, and the thought of what might have troubled her so, what might send her scurrying to see him the moment the pub closed, left him on edge, particularly in light of the phone call he'd received from Burns earlier in the day. Events were moving faster than he'd anticipated when he'd first agreed to this mission, and Harry could only hope that this time he would remain one step ahead of his enemies, and thus avoid any potential bloodshed. He could not bear the thought of repeating the mistakes of the past, losing Burns as he had lost young Sullivan to fire and death.

He did not have long to wait; a sharp, anxious little knock shattered the silence, and he leapt forward, swinging the door open wide. There on the other side stood Ruth, her face a study in anguish, her hands twisting nervously round and round one another as she shifted uneasily from one foot to another. True to form she was wearing a long dark skirt, her torso wrapped in a soft cardigan despite the fact that it had been a warm summer's day. The sun had long since set, and taken the warmth with it.

There was no need for him to speak; he took a single step back, and she slipped into his room, silent as a shadow, crossing to the window at once and peering out into the night while Harry locked the door behind her. For a moment he considered going to her, wrapping his arms around her slender waist, dropping a kiss against the soft skin at the nape of her neck, whispering to her that he was here, that he loved her, that he would keep her safe. Once, many years before, he had told her that he would not make any promises he could not keep, and so he did not go to her, did not offer her comforting lies. Whatever news she had to give him he would hear it, and he would do with it what he could, would try his damndest to avoid the calamity that seemed to hang over their heads.

"Is everything all right, Ruth?" he asked her softly. It seemed the best way to start, to remind her why she had come, to ask, however obliquely, if she had been hurt or threatened. The thought of Ryan Kelly putting his hands on Ruth made rage begin to churn and bubble deep in Harry's gut, but he fought it down, trying hard to rein in his emotions and focus on the task at hand. Any display of possessiveness and aggression, no matter how spectacular, would not impress Ruth, this woman who was so gentle, so thoughtful in her every word and deed.

"No, it's not bloody all right," she answered, turning away from the window to face him. As she did the soft glow of the street lights below washed over her, lighting up her brilliant eyes and leaving him breathless with longing for her. "I've just had a visit from Sean Kelly."

Harry sighed and sat heavily on the end of the bed, resting his forearms on his knees as he leaned forward, watching her as she began to pace anxiously by the window like some graceful, agitated cat.

For the second time that day, Harry found himself mulling over what he knew of Sean Kelly. The level-headed, hardworking older brother, industrious and polite and well liked; Sean was everything Ryan was not, and likely everything Ryan wanted to be. _What part does he have to play in all this?_ Harry wondered. Burns had spoken of him with a begrudging sort of respect, but to Harry the elder Kelly remained something of an unknown quantity.

"He came to warn me," Ruth continued. Harry's head jerked up at that, dark thoughts flashing through his mind, but he remained seated, wanting to give Ruth the space she needed to tell her tale. "He knows about you, about...about _us_ ," she said, faltering slightly as she spoke that last word. "When you were here, before, he'd heard the rumors, and he knows you're back. He told me that if I wanted to keep you safe, I needed to keep you away from the docks."

"Can he be trusted?" Harry asked her carefully. "How well do you know him, Ruth?"

As he delivered his second question Ruth seemed to crumple in on herself, the nervous energy of a moment before suddenly replaced by dejection, her face overcome by an expression that looked to Harry very much like shame.

"I don't know if he can be trusted," she admitted in a small voice. "I don't really know him that well. I mean, I do know him, I...I…" she sighed, apparently frustrated with herself as she stumbled over her words. Bemused, Harry watched as she wrapped her arms around herself, as if preparing for some sort of unpleasantness. "We've been sleeping together for nearly two years, he and I," she said after a moment. "We aren't properly together," she rushed on, her eyes suddenly focused on his face, pleading with him almost to hear her, to understand her. For his part, Harry was floored. Given what he knew of the Kelly clan and Ruth's history with them, given what he knew of Ruth, her character, her distaste for confrontation and strife, he found he was utterly flabbergasted by this revelation. _Do I really know her at all?_ He wondered.

"We just...we get on. His wife died, not long after George, and we both just wanted someone who could understand. He was always very kind to me, Harry. This isn't the first time he's tried to save your life."

"It isn't?" Harry repeated faintly. His head was reeling; _Ruth has been sleeping with a Kelly. For two years. Two years?_

She shook her head. "That night, when you went down to the docks, he came to the pub. Bought me a drink. He told me that it wasn't his family you should be worried about, that they weren't the only ones who came from Belfast. I think he was trying, in his own way, to point you towards David. He couldn't say anything outright, but he did try to warn me."

That was an awful lot of information for Harry to process all at once. He knew he couldn't fault Ruth, for finding comfort where and how she could, and by all accounts Sean Kelly was a decent man. A widower himself, he would have understood her grief, and if they had known each other the last twenty years, he likely understood something about her independence. They had each worked hard to build the lives they'd chosen for themselves, and perhaps that arrangement, going about their daily business and seeing each other when the mood struck them, suited them both well. He tried not to think how similar their affair was to the one he'd envisioned for himself and Ruth; was that really all he wanted from her? He had to ask himself; did he really want nothing more than an occasional tumble before they each went back to their separate lives? And on top of that, there came this newest revelation. Harry was kicking himself; if only he'd known, in 1985, that there had been a possible asset within the Kelly household, a man with a conscience, he might have been able to avoid catastrophe. In a way, he supposed Ruth was responsible, for having kept that detail to herself over the years, but he could not blame her; she had been young and frightened, and she was not a spy. He _was_ , however, and he added failing to turn Sean Kelly to his long list of mistakes.

"It's clear he knows more than he's saying," Harry said at last. His heart went out to Ruth; it had cost her dearly, he knew, to confess her connection to Sean, and he did not want her to feel guilty for having needs, for satisfying them in her own way. "There is trouble on the docks, and…" his voice trailed off, as he realized that actually, it would be better not to reveal Burns's plans. Ruth was not an agent, and she had no part to play in Burns's machinations; Harry would not allow it, could not stand to see her hurt. Burns was set to invade the docks the following evening, and Harry had made dinner reservations for he and Ruth that same night. He knew he had no business going near the operation, and he desperately did not want to disappoint her, when she had been so reticent to accept his invitation in the first place. Perhaps it would be best, he thought, if he carried on as planned, if he took her out to dinner, took her dancing, took her to bed, and kept her far away from the plot that was unravelling all round them.

"And what, Harry?" she asked him softly.

 _Damn._ He'd already said too much, and Ruth was not the sort to let things go.

"It's not my operation," he said, hedging somewhat. "I will pass the information along; if Kelly is suspicious, then it might be best if everyone laid low for a while. I'll do what I can, Ruth, but I can't promise more than that. I'm not in charge here."

Ruth's shoulders slumped; for a moment she hesitated, swaying slightly on her feet as if she couldn't quite make up her mind, but in the end she found her resolve, and crossed the room to stand before him. She reached out to run a gentle hand over his hair, staring into his eyes while his hands seemed to take on a mind of their own, rising up to cradle her hips. He drew her towards him and rested his cheek against her stomach, listening to the thrumming of the blood in her veins and drawing comfort from her nearness.

"I don't want anyone to get hurt, Harry," she breathed, and his heart ached at the sorrow in her voice, the grief, the fear. He only held her tighter, soothed by the brush of her skin against his own as her hands traveled over his head in silent benediction.

"I'll do what I can," he murmured.

Lifting his head he pressed a kiss against her stomach as her hands dropped to his shoulders. She was so bloody _close;_ the smell of her, the heat of her, the sight of her so near, well within range of his lips, his tongue, his mouth that seemed to water with need of her, with the remembered taste of her, was a delicious sort of torture. He wanted nothing more than to pull her down onto his lap, to lose himself inside her, as he had done so often in the past, as he had done only just that morning. As ever, though, she seemed to read his thoughts, and she gave a small shake of her head. Carefully she leaned over him, brushing his lips with her own once, softly, before stepping out of his embrace.

"I want to go home," she told him as she retreated from him. "I want to be close to Maren tonight. Yesterday she…" it was Ruth's turn to catch herself, to stop herself revealing too much information too soon. Though it galled him, Harry did not press her; they each had secrets, and for now it might be best if they kept their own counsel.

"But you will have dinner with me tomorrow?" he asked, rising to his feet to see her to the door. Though his heart cried out for her, reason prevailed, and he was determined not to try to sway her, if she was determined to go.

A warm smile danced across her face for a moment, the cares of the night banished, if only for an instant, as she seemed to become once more that girl he had known, that girl he had loved, that girl he had lost.

"I will," she told him.


	36. Chapter 36

**24 March 1985**

Ruth was shaking, as she made her way out of her room and down the stairs. She was due at the pub at 7:00 a.m., and had done her best to go about her morning routine as usual, trying to appear oblivious to the fact that her stepfather had been complicit in murder only a few hours before. _What happens next?_ She kept asking herself. Would James call the police? Would there be an investigation? Had Ryan already told David what he suspected of Ruth's relationship with James? Was she safe, here in this house? All through the long grey hours of the night the questions had plagued her, and though the sun was sluggishly rising, coming to burn away the fog of the night, she found very little peace in the stillness of this morning.

She wanted, more than anything, to speak to James. She wanted the answers to her questions, wanted to know that he was well, wanted to trace the broad plane of his chest with her fingertips and for once not be consumed with worry, watching the clock out of the corner of her eye and counting down the minutes until their inevitable parting. Only twenty minutes or so after she'd crawled through her window the night before she'd heard David come stumbling home, and that brought her some solace; surely if he'd come home that meant he wasn't out roaming the streets searching for James, and seeing as he went straight to bed and did not trouble her she could only guess that he did not know where his step-daughter had been, or who had she been with. _Be thankful for small mercies,_ she told herself grimly as she descended the stairs, intent on a bit of breakfast before work.

To her horror, she found David waiting in the kitchen, a cup of tea clutched in his hands and a troubled expression on his face.

"Morning, Ruthie," he said softly when he caught sight of her.

Every fiber of her being shrieked with the need to flee, to run as far and as fast as she could from the room, from that horrible man with blood on his hands. Though he was generally a disagreeable bastard David had tried, in his own way, to be a father to her; with the exception of that terrible day when he learned she'd slept with Ryan he'd never come close to raising a hand to her, and while he was often short with her at work, he usually spoke to her politely at home. She had always rather thought that what David wanted, more than anything, was for them to be a family, a proper family, a family he was not ashamed of, a family who would love one another. Rut had never loved him, though, had never found it in her heart to truly trust a man who could speak to her kindly over the breakfast table and rail at her in the pub. Maybe it was the drink, that made him so volatile when he left those four walls; maybe he felt that he had an image to maintain with his customers. Whatever the reason, it made no difference to Ruth. Not now, not after she'd learned that her suspicions had been correct, and he was a dangerous man.

"Good morning," she answered as brightly as she could manage. As she watched him she asked herself _what would James do, if he were in my position?_ The answer came to her quite clearly; he would be calm, he would be cool, and he would pretend that nothing was amiss. Ruth was determined to do just that, to tell David whatever she had to in order to keep herself safe, and to keep his doubts from festering. For perhaps the first time she realized what a dangerous game James was playing, trying to win the trust of people like David and Connor Kelly, while also working to dismantle their plans. It was tightrope she would have to walk, but Ruth had always been rather scared of heights.

"I've been meaning to ask you," David continued in a voice that tried and failed to sound casual. "Ryan said that English bastard's been sniffing around after your skirt. He's not been giving you any trouble, has he?"

Ruth's heart began to pound in her chest; to her dismay, she felt her cheeks begin to flush. That rosy blush had always been her downfall; no matter how hard she tried to hide she had always worn her heart on her sleeve, and she cursed it now, wondering how on earth she was going to talk her way out of this one.

"Mr. Harrison?" she asked, hoping she sounded surprised. "No, we've barely spoken. I don't know where Ryan's got that idea."

David harrumphed and stared down at his tea, apparently dissatisfied with her answer. "I just worry about you," he said gruffly, his posture telling Ruth without words that he felt just as uncomfortable and out of sorts with this conversation as she did. "Pretty girl like you, and no boyfriend, makes you a target." If she hadn't been so bloody terrified, Ruth might have been touched by his words; he sounded genuinely concerned about her. As it was, she could barely hear David speak over the pounding of her heart in her ears.

"I'm seeing someone," Ruth blurted.

 _Shit,_ she thought morosely as David slowly raised his head to stare at her incredulously. "George," she added, scrambling for some explanation, some way to get out of this conversation and retreat to the relative safety of the pub, to the real world where David never asked her questions about her personal life. "We've been keeping it quiet," the lies were coming thick and fast now, "because we didn't want Ryan to know. They're such good friends, George is worried it'll hurt his feelings."

"Right," David said faintly. "George. Well, he's a...nice lad. Got a good job. Good family." He scuffed the toe of his well-worn boot against the floor and staunchly refused to look at her. _Did it work?_ Ruth wondered as she watched him. Had it been enough to deflect his suspicions? Was he pleased, to think that Ruth might have finally chosen a nice young man for herself? And oh, _Christ,_ what was she going to do now?

"Yes," Ruth agreed.

An awkward silence filled the room, as they each desperately avoided looking at one another, wracking their brains in search of a polite way to end the conversation.

"You should invite him round for tea, sometime," David said finally, discarding his cup in the sink. "Your mother would like that."

"I...I'll ask him," Ruth told him. _Maybe it's not as bad as all that,_ she thought. George _was_ a nice young man; maybe she could invite him round for tea, go to the cinema with him, play along for a little while and buy herself sometime. It wasn't a particularly nice thing to do to George, to string him along like that, but he suspected the truth already. Maybe she could explain the whole thing to him, and he would go along with it willingly. Then again, maybe not.

Across the room David had run out of excuses to linger, and so he squared his shoulders and made his retreat, stopping long enough to pat her rather awkwardly on the shoulder. "I'm happy for you, Ruthie," he said.

"Thanks," she mumbled. And that was that.

* * *

 **31 March 1985**

Spring was in the air, this fine Sunday evening; it wasn't quite warm, just yet, but the bitter chill of winter had departed, the air now ripe with the promise of budding trees and newly flowered life. Harry was standing at a payphone several streets away from the pub, making a call to Clive back at Gower Street.

"Bloody hell, Harry, you've been there three months. You telling me you're really no closer to finding him?" Clive grumbled.

Though Harry bristled at the implication of his own incompetence he couldn't help but agree; he had been in Galway for months, and he had nothing to show for it. Somehow his prime suspects had gotten their hands on explosives and detonated a container in the shipyard and yet Harry had no evidence with which to charge them, and no notion of whether or not his incendiary foes even knew where Magee was. Though Clive had initially suggested turning the information about Sullivan's death over to the local police Harry had resisted; the lad's death was a tragedy, and Kelly and Shaw should be made to answer for it, but before that could happen Harry still needed more. He needed proof of what they'd done, beyond his own testimony, needed to know where the explosives had come from, and he didn't want to throw it all away on a case that wouldn't hold up in court. These men weren't particularly educated, but they were good at covering their tracks, and he suspected that he did not yet have enough leverage to drag the truth from them.

"I've just placed another asset on the docks," he said defensively, but this was not enough to appease Clive.

"That's your third in as many months, Harry. We need to see results, and soon. I need to know that you're still onside, not running your own vigilante operation here."

"We know we have an IRA bombmaker in the city," Harry ground out from behind clenched teeth. "Sources in Belfast say Magee has left that country, but he's not stupid enough to go to England, and we have no evidence of any of his aliases having left Northern Ireland. He would need friends to help him, and the Kellys run the docks here. It would have been easy enough, for them to sneak him into the country in a container. I still think this operation has merit."

"That makes two of us," Clive said in that self-satisfied way he had. _So it was just a test,_ Harry thought glumly. Clive was fond of tests. "I think you're right where you need to be, Harry. So prove it to me. Give me something to get the JIC off my back."

"I will," Harry promised.

"Right. Look after yourself. Don't get shot."

Before Harry could answer, Clive ended the call.

"I won't," Harry muttered, hanging up the phone and shouldering the bag he carried at his feet. He'd stopped off at the market, bought a bottle of wine and a bit of bread and cheese and some crisps. It had been seven days, since Sullivan had been killed, and in that time Harry had ventured into the dining room as often as he dared, trying to appear as if nothing were amiss, as if he didn't know that the man serving him whiskey had tried his damnedest to kill Harry only a few days prior. That first day had been the hardest, as he tucked his shaky hands into his pockets and approached the bar with a confidence he did not feel, smiling at Shaw and asking politely how he'd been, _and a whiskey, please_ , thinking only of Ruth, that beautiful, blessed girl he'd sent back into the lion's den with no means of defending herself. Shaw's bristly eyebrows had risen into his hairline at the sight of Harry's scruffy face, but to his credit he did not voice his surprise, instead pouring a whiskey and asking how the book was coming. The rest of their meetings had followed a similar pattern, but to Harry's chagrin - and, to be honest, his relief - he had seen neither hide nor hair of Connor Kelly.

On this particular evening, Harry was in no mood to face the dining room and the endless game of cat and mouse, and so he set off with the sack carrying his supper, intent on an early night.

He bypassed the dining room, choosing instead to make use of the side door and traipsing up the stairs to his room unnoticed by the Sunday night revelers. Upstairs all was quiet; his only neighbors this weekend consisted of a pair of combative honeymooners prone to bombastic arguments in the wee hours of the morning; Harry now knew more about their sex life than he ever cared to, and avoided them as much as he could.

With a sigh he opened the door and stepped into his room, toeing out of his shoes as he locked the door. That task done he turned towards the bed, intent on flopping into it and making himself a sandwich before falling asleep over the bottle of wine and one of the books he'd purchased from a shop down the lane.

He stopped short, however, for the bed was not empty. A familiar halo of dark brown hair spilled across his pillows; Ruth was burrowed beneath his duvet, sound asleep despite the fact that the sun had only just begun to set. He had not yet had the pleasure of observing her while she slept, and so for a moment he remained perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe as he watched her, her eyelashes spread like fans across her delicate porcelain cheeks, her brow for once unfurrowed by worry. It was dangerous, he knew, for her to come to him like this, to seek shelter in his room, but they had not spoken since that terrible night on the docks, and the sight of her soothed his weary soul, released a tension he had not realized he'd been holding until that moment.

Though a part of him longed to simply stand there, lost in this moment watching her at peace until the world righted itself around them, he knew he would have to speak to her. Likely she had not come to his room just to take a nap, and he needed to know what she was doing there, whether they might have a chance to spend some time together, as he so longed for, and so he crossed the room, and sat down on the bed beside her, reaching out to brush the hair from her face with a gentle hand.

"James?" she murmured sleepily, his heart rate doubling at the sight of those brilliant blue eyes, gazing up at him in adoration as she woke.

"This is a nice surprise," he told her softly. Unable to keep his hand from her skin he trailed the tips of his fingers along her jawline and watched the crimson blush spread across her cheeks.

"I told mum and David I was staying over at a friend's. I can go," she added in a dejected little voice as she registered his expression; his face fell, when she spoke, as fear began to nibble at the back of his consciousness. There were so many things that could _wrong_ , so many factors he couldn't account for, and Harry was warring with himself, wanting her to stay and wanting her to be safe, and desperately afraid that she could not do both. "If you don't want me here…" the sadness in her voice won the battle raging in his heart, and he leaned across to kiss her gently.

"I always want you here," he told her earnestly, smiling as relief flood across her features.

"Good," she said brightly. "I just need to...er…" she blushed all the harder, and gestured towards the en suite.

"Be my guest," Harry said, chuckling. He rose from the end of the bed to allow her room to escape, and began to unbutton his shirt as she slipped out from under the duvet. That chuckle died on his lips the moment he caught sight of her attire, however; he stopped breathing, stopped thinking, damn near collapsed on the spot as his eyes all but popped out of his head.

She had dressed for the occasion, his Ruth. She wore a soft, lacy white bra, her nipples visible through the thin cups that seemed to mold to her every curve. Likewise, the dark thatch of curls between her legs called his name from beneath the practically sheer matching knickers, and to complete the ensemble she wore a pair of black stockings, the lace tops shockingly dark against her pale thighs, held up by a garter belt. As he gaped at her she blushed, but she had nowhere to hide, no cardigan to wrap herself in, no long flowing skirt to disguise the luscious curves of her body, nothing to dull the erotic effect she presented thus adorned.

"Ruth," Harry breathed, his voice choked with yearning.

"Do you like it?" she asked self-consciously, staring down at her body.

 _Like it?_ He thought faintly. She was a vixen, a siren, a goddess come to life, transcendent in her youth, her beauty, and her uncertainty galled him; if he did nothing else this night, he decided, he would prove to her just how worthy she was, of his adoration, his affection, his love for her. He wasn't sure that he deserved her, to have her in his bed, in his life, but he was so bloody grateful for it that all of his doubts and all of his worries seemed to disappear, melted by the heat of her radiance.


	37. Chapter 37

**A/N: It seems a shame to let Ruth's naughty underwear go to waste, so the beginning of this chapter is rated M.**

* * *

 **31 March 1985**

Beneath him Ruth was trembling, her skin opalescent and gleaming, the brush of her silky stockings against his sides enchanting in its eroticism, the taste of her nipple as he tongued it through the lace of her bra heady and intoxicating. Harry was no stranger to sexual pleasure, but on this night, in this bed, with this woman, he felt as if he had passed into another realm altogether, as if he had never known true desire before this moment. Though sheer practicality dictated that he had no choice but to unfasten her suspenders and relieve her of her delicate knickers he had left the rest of her ensemble in place, the image she painted too delicious to be marred. Later, after his blood had cooled and his need for her had been sated, he would think how it touched him, that she had made such a gesture, that she had chosen to wear that outfit, despite her insecurity, that she had come to him and waited in his bed for no reason other than that she wanted to, than that the time they spent together made her as deliriously happy as it made him. They found solace in one another, comfort, refuge, peace, and the most spine-tingling sort of release.

Already he had made her come undone not one, not twice, but three times, with his fingers, his tongue, and finally his cock. Harry was rapidly racing towards his own completion, having held off the moment of his abandon for as long as he could manage in the name of bringing her to pleasure first. She made him feel young, made him feel free, and awoke within him that baser, primal part of himself that he so often tried to restrain. His elemental self had been released in truth tonight, and he had risen to the occasion, trying to show himself, trying to show _her,_ just how far he could take her, just how much satisfaction they could wring from every second of this encounter. They were sweaty and gasping, the pair of them, reduced to grunts and whimpers and fervent moans, tangled up so hopelessly that he had begun to feel as if they were one person, joined at their centers, never to be torn asunder.

"Please," she begged him as he continued his relentless pounding into her, her soft, wet inner walls practically breathing as they contracted around him; she had wrapped her legs around him, her ankles locked together at the small of his back, and the sensation of her sex, tight and wet and perfect, gripping him as if she never wanted to let him go, left him incapable of rational thought. Her nails had scored the sensitive skin of his back in the midst of her most recent orgasm, but now her hands were still, wrapped tightly around his shoulders as she clung to him and he drowned in her. Onward he moved, harder, and harder still, and faster until she was squealing with each potent thrust of his hips, her head thrown back and her every inhibition having been utterly annihilated in the face of the onslaught.

 _Once more_ , he told himself. _She can come at least once more._ With his lips fastened hard to her breast he all but growled, shifting just enough to snake a hand between them, down to the place where they were joined.

" _Oh, Christ,"_ she moaned. "I don't think I can." Her breasts were bouncing with the impact of his body crashing into hers again and again, but his pride, and his need, would not allow him to concede defeat. "James," her voice was shaky, each word escaping her kiss-swollen lips on a gasp, but he would not be deterred. With his fingertips rubbing insistent circles against her clit and the hard length of his cock plunging inside her Harry pushed her to the brink, and when finally she came tumbling over the edge Harry was forced to jerk his hand out from between them, his fingertips damp and smelling of her, to gently cover her mouth and stifle the sound of her screams. This final release was his undoing; though it was risky he indulged himself in thrusting twice more into her spasming heat before pulling out of her with a groan as he spilled himself across her stomach and collapsed beside her, panting.

* * *

For a moment Ruth was genuinely concerned that something might be wrong with her. Though she had danced this dance a time or two before it had never been like this, had never been as shattering, as devastating, as completely all-consuming as it was with James. She could not move, could barely breathe, could not feel anything accept the boundless release and the pounding of her heart in her chest. Beside her James was still and gasping, and though she longed to reach out to him, to touch him, to feel him, to find some piece of something real to anchor herself to the present she found that she could not lift her arm. Tears sprang to her eyes unbidden; she felt as if they'd just shared something monumental, as if every part of her had been broken into thousands of tiny pieces, and James had knit them back together with the sure and steady touch of his hand, forming her into a new creation altogether, a creature worthy of his adoration, a woman who was not whole without him there inside her. To her horror she felt the tears begin to fall, sliding down her cheeks in a torrent of emotion she could not name.

It took a while for them to settle down, to return to earth after James relentlessly drove her body to heaven and beyond, but eventually he turned to her, and reached out to brush his thumb across her cheekbone, smearing the tracks of her tears.

"Are you all right?" he asked her gently.

She laughed, a slightly hysterical sort of sound. Her body was still trembling, sensation slowly returning to her extremities and bringing it with it a familiar pins-and-needles sort of feeling.

"I am so far past all right I don't think they've invented a word for it yet," she told in a quivering voice.

James did not laugh; he seemed concerned by her behavior, and so he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her to rest against his chest, painting both of them with the wetness he'd left on her bare stomach. He caught the duvet with his foot and covered them both with it, cocooning her in his warmth and affection. Wrapped up in him the tremors of her body subsided, and her breathing slowed.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he murmured, dropping a gentle kiss against her hair.

"You didn't," she assured him, craning her neck to press her lips against the underside of his chin. She nestled still closer to him, and closed her eyes, falling at once into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

The ringing of the little telephone beside the bed jerked Harry out of his doze, putting him instantly on the alert. Beside him Ruth was still sleeping, her head pillowed on his shoulder, both of her legs wrapped around his thigh, her arm slung out across his chest. She was soft and warm and innocent in sleep, no traces of the sorrow that usually draped itself around her like a cape, no sign of the vixen she had been only a few hours before. Though he was loath to wake her, Harry knew that the ringing of the phone could only herald disaster, and as such, he knew he needed to answer the call at once. The young men in his employ knew better than to ring him at Shaw's, but no one else had the number, and so he could only assume that it was desperation and fear that had driven his late-night caller. Carefully he slipped out from Ruth's embrace and rolled to the side, lifting the phone with one hand while with the other he massaged his gritty-feeling eyes.

"Yes?" he said softly.

"Now," came the reply, and then the line went dead.

 _Bollocks,_ Harry thought grimly. He was fairly certain that the voice belonged to Paul, the young man he had posted at Ceannt Station. The meaning of the message was clear enough; Paul had information for him, information that could not wait until their next meeting on Friday night, information that could not even wait until the break of day. The little clock beside the bed told him it had just gone 3:00; perhaps he could slip out, he mused even as he rose to his feet and cast about for his trousers, hastily discarded in the lust that had consumed him upon seeing Ruth clad all in lace and practically begging him to take her. It was early yet; perhaps he could go and speak to Paul, and return to bed before Ruth even knew that he'd gone. He did not know how long she could stay, and he was loath to leave her, but he had a job to be doing, and he could not shirk his responsibility, especially not now, not after Sullivan's tragic end. Harry owed it to that poor lad to see this thing through to its conclusion.

Harry set the alarm on the clock for 5:00, just in case he was not back in time and Ruth needed to leave before sunrise, and then he scrawled her a hasty note, propping it up on the table beside the bed. Through all of this she slept on, blissfully unaware of his impending departure. At the door he stopped and looked back at her once, nearly overcome with longing for her, nearly undone by the beauty and the devilry of her. It was with a heavy heart that he left her, and stole out into the chill of the night.

His feet carried him unerringly to the payphone he used to make contact with his team, and he dialed Paul's number at once, stamping his feet and trying to ignore the heady scent of Ruth that lingered on his fingertips.

"Yeah?" Came Paul's voice, weary and troubled.

"It's me," Harry answered shortly.

"We've got a problem, boss."

Harry fought the urge to sigh. All around him the world was still and dark, no birds chirping, no swirling, menacing fog, just the eerie, endless, tomblike slumber of a city in the dead of night.

"So I gathered," he said, not even trying to mask the petulance that crept into his voice. It was becoming harder by the day to stay focused on his task, when he had achieved no results, when he had the distraction of a beautiful young woman to keep his thoughts from wandering to the wife and children he'd abandoned, the friends he'd betrayed, the string of death and mayhem that followed in his wake. _That girl is no good for me,_ he thought fleetingly; Harry knew all too well the dangers of being ensnared by a woman, having allowed Juliet Shaw to run circles around him from the moment they first met for no reason other than that he wanted in her knickers. Still, though he knew it was folly, though he knew the best course of action would be to cut ties with her and never see her again, his longing for her only grew each time it was fed, and he could not even imagine a life without her in it. He was well and truly sunk now, with no way out.

"I've been reviewing last week's tapes, and I think I found him. Magee."

Harry's heart stuttered in his chest. Could it really be? He wondered. After three months of waiting, three months of freezing his balls off in some far flung corner of Ireland while his enemies danced continuously, mockingly just out of reach, could something as benign as a security camera in a rail station have brought about a successful end to his operation?

"He took the last train to Limerick, Saturday night."

"Shit," Harry swore. "You're sure it's him?"

"Sure as I can be," came the answer.

"Shit."

This news brought with it no relief; they had a lead for the first time in months, but if Magee had boarded a train at Ceannt Station, that could only mean that he had been hiding under Harry's nose all this time. The thought pricked at Harry's pride, but he had no time for indulging in self-recrimination.

"How long does it take to drive to Limerick?" Harry asked, shifting nervously from one foot to the other as anticipation began to build within him.

"Just under an hour and a half. The thing is, that train isn't direct. It makes a few stops along the way. We can't be certain he didn't get off somewhere else."

"There's a port in Limerick," Harry said grimly. "I want you to call the station-"

"They're closed just now, everyone's asleep-"

"Well, wake them up! I'm leaving now. When I get to the station in Limerick I want police there. I'll need to see their tapes and we'll need to seal the port. If he left late Saturday, there's every chance he's still there, waiting for transport on Monday morning. This is it, Paul."

"Whatever you say, boss," his young agent muttered, sounding thoroughly put out and not the least bit hopeful. Harry barked a few more orders before he viciously slammed the phone against the receiver. He swore once, for good measure, and then took off running for Shaw's. The net was closing, and time was drawing short.


	38. Chapter 38

**19 July 2006**

It was a Wednesday evening, and as such the pub was not particularly crowded. Oh, there were a few folks, come for a bit of supper and a drink or two, but the clientele on weeknights was always a much more subdued bunch, and Maren was grateful for it. The last few days had been strange, and she wanted a bit of peace, a bit of quiet, one blessed night without a single Kelly making an appearance, without Mr. Harrison hovering in the corner and watching her mother with hungry eyes.

Just the thought of him, and the trouble that seemed to follow in his wake, made Maren uncomfortable. Her mother had always been such a steady presence, dispensing gentle wisdom and managing the pub's operations with a quiet practicality; she was not prone to outbursts of emotion, and she rarely spoke of her troubles. Just the thought of her having been involved in some sort of passionate affair with the gruff, hulking Mr. Harrison, however many years before, left Maren feeling ill at ease, as if she'd never known her mother at all. Until that man turned up on their doorstep, Maren had always believed that her parents' marriage was a happy one, that they had loved one another deeply, but now she found a barrage of questions had taken the place of that certainty. She had tried to ask Mr. Harrison about it the other morning, but he had dodged her neatly, and Maren had yet to work up the courage to speak to her mother directly. Somewhere deep in her heart she was forced to admit that she was terribly afraid of the answers she might find, should she continue on this path. For all her attempts to appear worldly and knowing, she was still quite young, and still unprepared to consider the all too human desires that ruled her mother's heart.

And, to be fair, she was also quite cross about the whole Connor business. She'd not seen him since yesterday morning, when he'd come by to ask if she was all right following their disastrous evening together. The public nature of the dining room had prevented her from giving voice to her frustrations, to the galling nature of the knowledge that while her mother counselled prudence she had been involved in an ill-fated affair of her own when she was Maren's age. Though Maren knew that her mother was speaking as the voice of experience, no doubt trying to prevent Maren experiencing the same sort of grief she must have endured herself, she found no comfort in the thought. She felt petulant and out of sorts, and she found herself in an altogether unpleasant mood when her mother came sweeping into the room around 7:30 that evening.

The sight of her mother piqued her curiosity; despite her aggravation, Maren couldn't help but notice that Ruth had taken the time to dress rather more carefully than she ordinarily would have done, and she couldn't help but wonder at the motivation behind it. Maren watched her mother make her way across the room, stopping occasionally to chat to her customers, and took stock of her appearance. Ruth wore a lovely dress, deep navy in color, cut rather lower and rather shorter than her usual ensembles, though it had hardly qualified as daring. Her silver necklace sparkled at her throat, and she had forgone her boots for a more delicate pair of sandals. _Oh Christ,_ Maren thought, all bemused, _she's even painted her toenails._

By the time Ruth arrived at the bar, her hair curling artfully around her face and a high rosy blush staining her cheeks, Maren was practically bursting with inquisitiveness.

"Cup of tea?" Maren asked, though she made no attempt to go and fetch one. Usually when Ruth came to the pub on her evenings off - which were few and far between - she liked to take a cup of tea and sit at the end of the bar and read her book, smiling through the constant interruptions of her friends and neighbors, always inevitably ending up behind the bar serving drinks. She just couldn't help herself, Maren knew; the pub was her whole life. On this particular evening, though, Ruth didn't look like she'd come for a cup of tea, and she did not carry a book.

"Oh no, love, I can't," Ruth answered softly.

"What's the matter? Have you got a date?" Maren asked, not realizing until she'd spoken that the words she'd said in jest might well have hit the mark.

Across the bar Ruth dropped her gaze down to her toes as her blush deepend, and Maren's heart sank like a stone.

"Oh my god, you do, don't you? Who is it?" she asked in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning towards her mother and raising her eyebrows in disbelief. "Is it Sean?" she added before she could stop herself, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. For all Ruth's many lectures about the ills of the Kelly clan and all her efforts to be discreet Maren had long ago noticed that the nights when Sean Kelly came to the pub were the nights when her mother didn't come home until the wee hours of the morning, if indeed she returned at all before resuming her post at the pub. The hypocrisy of it stung Maren to the quick, and left her waspish and unable to hold her tongue. But then, the expression of shock and horror that danced across Ruth's face following Maren's harsh question gave her pause; perhaps she had misread the situation altogether.

"What? No," Ruth said in a rush, "absolutely not. Maren-"

"Who, then? Mr. Harrison?"

Though Ruth shook her head as if to deny it Maren had seen the answer writ large across her mother's face. A deep sense of foreboding filled her at the thought, but before she could speak, Ruth cut her off.

"It doesn't matter, Maren. I'm going out. I have my mobile, so you can ring me if you need me. I won't be far away."

"Just upstairs, most like," Maren grumbled. That particular comment was pushing things too far, and she knew it; her mother reached out, and caught her gently by the wrist.

"Maren," she said sharply. "I know you're angry with me about Connor. Don't try to deny it," she added when Maren opened her mouth to protest. "But please, _please_ , try not to take things so personally. Not everything is about you, darling. I'm having a meal with a friend, I'm not deliberately trying to upset you."

Maren sighed and slumped her shoulders, and her mother released her wrist, smiling at her fondly. "I love you," Ruth said quietly. "We'll talk later, yes?"

"All right," Maren nodded. "Have a good time." She didn't mean it, really; she rather hoped the date would not go well and that Mr. Harrison would go ahead and leave them alone already, but she dared not speak such an unkind thought aloud. If anyone deserved a bit of fun, it was Ruth, regardless of Maren's feelings about the company she kept.

"Thank you," Ruth said, and the way she practically glowed nearly turned Maren's stomach. Ever since Mr. Harrison had arrived, Ruth had seemed to become another person altogether, laughing merrily at his jokes and sneaking away from the pub and delivering dire warnings about the Kellys. Maren hated it; she hated feeling as if she'd lost her sense of equilibrium, as if everything were falling apart around her. She just wanted things to go back to the way they were before, when her mother was quiet and a bit repressed, when she and Connor could spend a few minutes together without feeling as if they were doing something illegal, when she gave no thought to the private lives of her mother or the pub's guests. The sooner Mr. Harrison left, she thought, the better.

* * *

Ruth had elected to meet Harry at the restaurant instead of driving over together; their dinner was set for 8:00, and there were still entirely too many people in the pub for Ruth to risk being seen with him. The restaurant he'd chosen was intimidatingly posh, and served a very different caliber of customer from Ruth's usual guests; there would be very little risk of them being spotted there by anyone who knew her well. As it was a fine evening Ruth decided to walk, savoring the fresh air and the chance to sort through her scattered thoughts. She was worried about Maren, who had been moody and out of sorts since Ruth had discovered Connor in her bedroom, and Ruth was worried too about the conversation she knew they would have to have before this business with Harry was through. Always before she had tried to shield Maren from the unpleasantness of the world, from the bitter truth of her mother's humanity, had taken a great deal of comfort in offering her daughter guidance while keeping her own fractured personal life hidden from her daughter's prying eyes. Now, though, the time had come for Maren to learn the truth, or at least some of it, and Ruth was dreading it.

She was anxious, too, about what this night would bring; though she had tried very hard not to think about it, Harry had set her ablaze with need of him, and her body cried out for his touch, desperate for another chance to fall into bed with him. Could they carve out some time tonight? she wondered. Could she be so brave, so bold as to go home with him, walking along the pavement in the darkness hand in hand, to ascend the stairs together and go tumbling into bed in that room that had borne witness to so many of their previous assignations? Just the thought of it set her heart to racing, her hands to shaking; she wanted him with a fierceness that stunned her. The memory of him, of what he could do, had done to her with his hands, his lips, his cock left her hungry for more, and she reminded herself as she walked that she was a grown woman, unfettered by other entanglements. Surely there was nothing wrong with taking the pleasure he offered her, this man who loved her so unreservedly, despite the many changes they had both undergone during their long separation. Surely it could not be wrong to return that love, when it had survived through so much grief and pain. So why then did she feel as if she were doing something wrong?

By the time she arrived at the restaurant she was no nearer a solution for her quandary, and in fact quite forgot her confusion when she spotted Harry waiting for her near the entrance. He looked quite smart, in his dark shirt and dark trousers, his skin gently tanned by the days he'd spent walking down by the water's edge. For all the changes cruel time had wrought in his body he was still devastatingly handsome to her eyes, with his full lips and his warm gaze and his broad, powerful shoulders, and the soft smile that he shone at her when he caught sight of her lifted her spirits enormously.

"Hello," he said in that quiet voice of his when she drew near; before she could respond, he snaked one arm around her waist, pulling her close to kiss her gently on the cheek in greeting before he released her, her senses reeling and full of him, his heat, his scent, his very presence.

"Hello," she answered in a voice that quivered, just a little, with poorly disguised longing. He saw the need in her, she knew, answered it with a need of his own as his eyes grew dark, traveling over her figure for a moment.

"You look lovely," he told her, stepping smoothly to the side to open the door for her, his hand at the small of her back guiding her inside.

This was quite a new experience for Ruth; she'd married young, to a kind man with very little money to his name, and she had rarely been on a proper, grown-up date, rarely had the opportunity to sit in a tastefully decorated room across the table from a man who watched her with lust in his eyes while they drank fine wine and the candlelight flickered across their faces. Dinner in the pub was her stage, the place she felt most at ease, and it had been in her mind to worry that he might find her lacking, might think her too simple for his tastes. The doubts faded in the warmth of Harry's company, however, as he kept his hand pressed to her body, pulling her in close to him as they made their way to their table. There was no telling what this night might bring, but Ruth was determined to enjoy it to the fullest.

* * *

Across the city, Samuel Burns and five armed agents sat waiting in an abandoned warehouse near the dock, each keeping one eye on the horizon and the other on their watches. They were waiting for sundown, waiting for the darkness to fall and give them the cover they would need to infiltrate the docks, and hopefully put a stop to this gun running business once and for all. John Walsh wanted results, and Samuel Burns was bound and determined to deliver them. This was his moment, he was sure; he would never get another chance as good as this one, to catch Ryan Kelly in the act and shower himself and his team in glory. That Sir Harry, the irascible anti-terrorism spook from London, had warned against it was not quite sufficient to put a stop to his plans. Sir Harry had his own motives, Burns knew, most likely having to do with the pretty little woman behind the bar in Shaw's pub and her pretty little daughter, and Burns was not about to be waylaid by the paranoia of an old spook caught up in the memory of a long-ago love affair. That Sean Kelly had offered a warning to Sir Harry's mistress only served to solidify Burns's resolve; there was something set to happen on the docks tonight, and by God, he was going to be a part of it.


	39. Chapter 39

**19 July 2006**

"Paris," Harry said softly, his honey brown eyes sparkling in the gentle glow of the antique lamp hanging just above their table. They were tucked into a secluded corner of the fanciest restaurant Ruth had ever entered, and Harry was telling her of all the places he'd seen, and the places he'd most like to revisit.

Ruth wrinkled her nose, taking another sip of wine from the glass that Harry had been liberally refilling all evening. There was no need for him to get her good and drunk; the moment she'd first seen him waiting for her on the pavement Ruth had decided that she would go to bed with him again, if the offer were on the table. She needed no further encouragement. It was nice, though, to be treated with such care, nice to have him usher her to her seat, his fingertips brushing against her shoulder as he stepped away, nice to sit in a comfortable chair across from a handsome man, drinking expensive wine and talking of sights she'd never dreamed of seeing. There was a magical, ethereal quality to the evening, and Ruth knew she had never experienced its like before. Though she felt a bit out of place, a bit simple - rustic, even - in her nicest dress, Harry had been so very attentive, so very engaging, so very kind that she quite forgot her misgivings, and allowed herself to be caught up in the deep timbre of his voice and the sight of his full lips as he spoke.

"You don't agree?" he asked her, sounding somewhat amused.

"Paris is just there," she said, gesturing vaguely as if they were discussing the bar across the street, and not a city eight hundred miles away. "You could go to Paris any old time, from London."

"Where would you go, then?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. There was the air of a satisfied man about Harry this evening, as if he had everything he'd wanted, sitting at this table with him. The food had been quite good, Ruth supposed, but they had long since finished, and were instead lingering over their wine, enjoying one another's company far too much to abandon their meal just yet.

Ruth sighed, dropping her gaze to her wine glass and contemplating his question. Her life had not always been an easy one; she'd lost her father, lost Harry, lost her husband, struggled through lean winters and fought off the black dog that snapped at her throat every time the darkness fell. She had kept her chin up when everyone around her whispered vitriol behind her back, and served Ryan Kelly his supper with a smile when she wanted nothing more than to launch herself across the bar and claw his eyes out with her own fingernails. Through all of her trials and tribulations, Ruth had tried quite hard not to lose herself to dreaming of something more, not to season the sour taste of her struggles with the bitter, disappointing thought of all the beautiful secrets the world lavished on those more fortunate than she. Deep in her heart, though, Ruth had always harbored a secret dream, never spoken of, only dearly wished for.

"New York," she said, her voice hardly more than a choked whisper. She did not indulge herself in wondering why she was confessing such a thing to Harry, when she had never shared that longing with anyone, not even her husband. There was no need to wonder; she knew that she had confided in him because she loved him, because he understood her, because their hearts were bound together, by ties that neither time nor violence nor matrimony had broken.

Harry hummed, and shifted slightly, leaning towards her now, his expression thoughtful, as if she were a puzzle he was trying to piece together.

"Why New York, Ruth?" he asked her.

It had been a very long time, since someone had paid her quite so much attention, had expressed an interest in her as a person, and not just a means to satisfy their own needs. People at the pub pressed her for food and drink, Maren looked to her for guidance, Sean sought her out for sex, but Harry truly saw her, the sum of all her parts, and seemed to be quite enchanted with the picture she presented, for which she was unspeakably grateful.

"I just...I want to walk along the streets. I want to see the people, to hear the sound of all them living together. I've read about it, I've seen it in films. It just seems so…" she struggled through the fog of wine, trying to put to words a feeling she herself had never really understood. "It seems so alive, so vibrant, so...different from this place. No one would know me, there. No one would wonder what I was up to; everyone there comes from somewhere else."

Harry reached across the table and took her hand in his as she spoke, and when she finished, he gave her a gentle squeeze.

"One day," he said, "one day I would like, very much, to take you there."

She smiled at him sadly; wine always made her feel a bit maudlin, and the three glasses she'd already consumed had begun to take their toll. "You can't, Harry," she murmured, turning her hand over to trace his palm with the tips of her fingers. He had good hands, did Harry, boxer's hands, like her father's, big and scarred, the knuckles swollen with arthritis, powerful and soothing all at once. "We both know you can't."

"Why not?" he asked her, his voice serious as he followed their conversation, his brow furrowing, hurt shining in the depths of his gentle eyes.

"You have your life in London-"

"Do you know what I have in London, Ruth?" he interrupted her, sincerity and passion radiating from him. "I have a house I use only to sleep, a job that drains the life from me, a dog that will not live much longer, and two children who refuse to speak to me. What sort of life is that? Between that, and New York with you, I know which I'd choose."

Ruth's heart went cold, at the mention of his children; he'd never spoken to her of them, though as she considered it now she supposed it was inevitable, that he and Jane had raised children of their own. _Oh Christ,_ she thought glumly, _were they around, when he was here before? Did I ruin a happy family?_

"You've never mentioned them before, you children," she said, withdrawing her hand from his grasp to cradle her glass once more, trying to fight back the waves of guilt that lapped around the edges of her heart. She thought of Maren, the way she had been as a child, so eager to please, eager to laugh, so desperate for her father's affection, which George had always given so freely. Were Harry's children the same, longing for a gentle word, a cuddle, and receiving none from him? He told her that he and Jane had separated after he returned to London; did his children wonder where their father had gone? _What sort of woman am I, to play such games, with no thought of the innocent people who were hurt in the process?_ Not for the first time, she found herself wondering about the mysterious Jane, this woman whose place she had usurped so many years before.

Harry's eyes darkened slightly, but to his credit he did not try to sweeten his words with lies. "Catherine is 26 and Graham is 23. They're…I...I was not a good father to them, Ruth. I was young, and too caught up in my own troubles, too busy arguing with their mother and fighting my own battles. I speak to Catherine occasionally, but Graham…" again his voice trailed off, sorrow of a kind she could not recall having ever seen in him before painting his features. _Catherine and Graham;_ she conjured them in her mind's eye, Catherine looking rather like a sadder, older version of Maren, Graham looking rather like Harry had done when he was young. They were two people, real and whole, whose whole lives had been shattered because Ruth fell into bed with this man. It was a deeply troubling thought.

But when Harry spoke again, he sounded so very dejected that she found herself fighting the urge to go to him, to wrap him in her arms and offer him comfort, despite her own grief. "There's too much bad blood between us, now. They're happier without me inflicting myself on them."

Ruth had done a bit of mental calculation, while Harry had been talking; Catherine must have been about five, when Ruth first met Harry, and Graham only two. _They were hardly more than babies,_ she thought dispiritedly. _And I stole their father from them._

"It wasn't your fault, Ruth," Harry told her softly. "We weren't well suited, Jane and I. It would have happened eventually."

"And now what? You've just given up?" the words were a bit harsh but she hoped that he could hear the encouragement in her tone, the unrelenting reminder that he was still alive, as were his children, and as such all hope was not yet lost. She found herself thinking of Maren, who was at present rather cross with her; even in her angriest moments, Ruth could not imagine going more than a day without speaking to her child. This was yet another uncomfortable reminder of the rough and tumble sort of life Harry had lived, of the hard bastard he no doubt could be in his day to day life, despite the tenderness he shown her. Ruth wasn't sure she deserved his regard; she rather felt it ought to be reserved for his family, but she could not bear the thought of living without it.

"I know we've only just found one another again," Harry told her, his fingers twitching briefly as if he had made to reach for her, but thought better of it. "And I don't know what the future holds for us. But I don't want to lose you again, not when I don't have to. I won't do this job forever, Ruth, and when it's done, I want more than just an empty house. I want something I can hold on to."

Maybe it was the wine that made her bold, or maybe it was the trust he was showing her, in being so very honest, but Ruth decided to put aside her guilt and her cares, however briefly. He had revealed an unpleasant part of himself, and she could not meet such honesty with disdain or rejection, not when her heart cried out for him, not when she longed for nothing more than him, all of him, the good and the bad together.

She reached across the table, and took his hand in her own.

"I know what our future holds," she murmured, watching the sudden spark of joy dancing in his eyes at her words.

"Oh?"

She nodded. "You promised to take me dancing."

* * *

Burns cursed the darkness, as he moved along the unmarked paths of the dockyard. His team had divided into pairs, each linked by earpieces and little microphones, each carrying a schematic of the dockyard in their minds as well as on their mobiles. He had taken the photographs while posing as an inspector, and marked well the place where the mystery container was being held, and he had mapped out the approach, using his team to block off all possible entry and exit points. They did not carry torches, and they moved as silently as they could manage, the hairs on the back of Burns's neck standing up as with each step he took he fancied he could hear the sound of his enemies footfalls just behind him. No human forms materialized in the darkness, however; it was just him and Benny, moving slowly along the path, sticking well out of sight.

The ominous warning Sir Harry had given him echoed in the vaults of his mind; Burns had in turn warned his boys not to enter the container, under any circumstances. He was a firm believer in learning from the mistakes of the past, and he would use Sir Harry's lamentable experience as his own guidepost, in the hopes of protecting his men. They looked to him for guidance, and he would not let them down, but he also knew that the mission was more important than any one of their lives. That was the deal, and each of them had known it when they signed their life away to the service. Country before self, in all things.

When he reached the container there was not another soul in sight, but he did not breathe a sigh of relief; with a wordless gesture, he motioned for Benny to join him in the shadows between two containers, opposite their mark. They would watch and wait, lurk in the shadows according to their remit, and spring a trap upon those who wished to ensnare them, if indeed that was the intention of Ryan Kelly and his goons.

As the minutes ticked by the tension in his shoulders only mounted; his agents were sticking to protocol, and so the device in his ear was silent, the wash of water on the shore and ships creaking in their berths the only sounds that reached him. Finally, though, he saw the flash of torchlight along the path, and his heart rocketed up into his throat.

 _Here we go,_ he thought.

As he watched, several shifty-looking men in dark clothes, each of them armed, came marching into view. They were a poor excuse for soldiers, this lot, ramshackle and muttering conspiratorially to one another.

"Hold," Burns whispered into his microphone, wanting his men to stay in place, wanting to wait and see what was about to unfold.

"No one's here," one of the men muttered.

"Fan out," another one answered. "That fat English bastard can't help himself, he'll come. And when he does, we'll get rid of him, just like the boss wants."


	40. Chapter 40

**A/N: Holy crap, y'all, 40 chapters! Thanks for sticking with me on this adventure. We've been through a lot together since this story started in March, and I can't tell you how grateful I am to each and every one of you.**

* * *

 **1 April 1985**

Harry had spent the whole bloody day at the rail station in Limerick, going ten rounds with the plods and fielding phone calls from Clive in London and his agents in Galway, desperately trying to track his mark. For all his efforts, he had naught to show for it; there was no sign of Magee on the security cameras, none of the rail station employees recalled having seen the man, and his attempts to force a closure of the port had been met with incredulous laughter. The locals were tetchy about taking orders from a British spy, and Harry had endured more than his fair share of grumbling over the last few hours. At the moment he was sitting on a bench just outside the rail station, his elbows resting on his knees and his head hung wearily between his shoulders. It had been a long and fruitless day, and he was feeling the effects of having missed a good night's sleep. That rankled, the knowledge that he had left a beautiful woman cold and lonely in his bed to run across the country on a fool's errand and did not have so much as a whiff of his prey's scent to justify the excursion. He hoped that Ruth would not be too cross with him for leaving; he was cross enough with himself.

There was more happening here than met the eye, Harry was sure. For months now a steady stream of information had been pouring into the Security Services, assuring them that Magee was in Galway, despite Harry having seen no evidence of this himself. And now there was this cock-up in Limerick; could it be, he asked himself, that Magee had never boarded the train at all, that he had instead feinted toward the south in hopes of distracting his enemies while he turned tail and ran in the opposite direction? His thoughts kept circling back to Paul; the lad was a local boy who'd left town to go to university and returned on loan from the Garda, and had thus far given every appearance of being level-headed and dependable. But it was Paul's information that sent Harry racing for his hire car; Harry had not seen the footage himself, had instead trusted his agent's word. What would he do, if Paul were compromised?

Harry felt himself besieged by doubts, as the sun slowly set on Limerick, taking with it all his hopes for a swift and speedy conclusion to the operation. It was time for him to make his way back to Galway, he knew, to begin untangling all the many threads of deception that had so incapacitated him. The only bright spot in this miserable day was the memory of Ruth as she had been the night before, his recollections of the sight of her, the sound of her, the taste of her giving him the strength he needed to carry on, when his own reserves were failing. He might be returning to Galway with his tail tucked firmly between his legs, but at least she would be there waiting for him.

* * *

Ruth had risen at five, when the little alarm clock beside James's bed began to trill merrily away, heralding the arrival of another day. At first she had been troubled, to find herself alone, but when she reached over to silence the clock she discovered the note James had left for her.

 _Ruth_ , it said, _I have been called away. You were far too beautiful, sleeping in my bed, and I did not wish to disturb you. I will be back as soon as I can. Please don't fret. All my love, James._

She was touched to find that though he had departed in some haste, he had taken the time to set the alarm and leave a note for her. The note did not fill her with confidence; he could tell her not to fret all he liked, it would not stop her worrying for him. She did not know where he had gone, or for how long, or to what end, and as she went about the business of her day she found herself wondering, not for the first time, about his wife.

The woman's name was Jane, Ruth knew, the woman he had left behind. He had not spoken of her often, but on those rare occasions his voice had been laced with a weary sort of regret, as if he were both ashamed of himself and tired of his marriage in equal measure. _Is this how she feels?_ Ruth had asked herself, as her thoughts kept turning to James throughout the day, wondering where he was, if he were safe, if he were well. Did Jane worry for him, too? He had been in Galway three months now, and all that time his wife had been alone in London, with nothing more than the occasional brief phone call, made from a payphone a few streets away, to assure her that her husband was still living. _That's what comes of falling in love with a spy,_ she thought, _the grief and the pain and the never knowing._ Jane would have understood that far better than Ruth, she supposed, having been married to the man for years now. She imagined that there were many things Jane knew about him that Ruth could not even comprehend; they had gone to university together, he'd told her once. Jane had known her husband when he was young, had fallen in love with him before his work had hardened his heart, and Ruth could not help but wonder if he had been different, then, if he had whispered words of love to Jane just as he whispered them to Ruth now in the still of the night.

It didn't matter in the end, she supposed. She felt no jealousy for Jane, nor did she view the woman as some sort of competition; as far as Ruth was concerned, the battle for James's heart had been won long ago, when Jane took his name and joined her life to his. He belonged to her, whatever he said, however unhappy he might be with their relationship, and Ruth knew that his time with her was measured, sure to draw to a close at any moment, and when the last of the sand slipped through the hourglass he would make his way home to Jane, to wrap her in his arms, to share with her all the joys and all the heartaches that Ruth felt she herself had only taken out on loan, that she knew she must return when his work in Galway was done.

There was very little cheer in Ruth's heart that day, as she brooded on her absent lover and the ever-present shadow of his wife. Good girls didn't go to bed with married men, Ruth knew, but she found her guilt abated somewhat when she reminded herself that she had no designs on taking James from his wife on a permanent basis. This affair would not spell the end of his marriage, not if she could help it, and that lessened the blow to her conscience, though it did nothing to soothe her petulant heart, that fickle beast that wanted to keep James all to herself.

Though she was not scheduled to work she found that she did not want to be alone tonight, but nor did she wish to seek out her friends, those troublesome girls who liked nothing so much as a good drink and a party at George's flat. Her feet carried her instead towards the pub, a book clutched in her hands; it was in her mind to sit at a table in some of out of the way corner of the dining room, to eat her meal in solitude while surrounded by the bustle and noise of people who did not share her troubles. It would not be the first time she had spent an evening thus, and she was rather looking forward to it, to indulging in something so normal.

Upon arriving at the pub, however, she was troubled to find that a sign on the door declared it closed for business. No such sign had ever been hung at Shaw's pub before, and she was so confused by it that she thought surely it must have been some juvenile sort of prank, perhaps Ryan and his goons trying to start some kind of mischief. The door was unlocked, which only seemed to prove that the sign was placed in error, and so Ruth slipped inside.

She could hear voices echoing from the dining room, and relaxed somewhat at the sound. She had not dared to remove the sign, and so resolved to step inside and speak to David about it at once. Though darkness was falling it was not terribly late; there was time enough, to reclaim whatever business the sign might have cost them, and perhaps now David might consider doing something about Ryan and his troublesome friends. Feeling a bit better about the whole business, Ruth continued on into the dining room.

The sight that greeted her put an end to any optimistic thoughts she might have entertained; David was behind the bar, leaning on his elbows as he spoke earnestly to Connor Kelly. Sean and Ryan were there as well, and a man in a wheelchair she assumed must be their mysterious uncle. There were a few other men gathered, hardscrabble men who carried the reek of the docks with them, and a lad Ruth recognized from the last party she'd attended at George's flat some weeks prior, though she did not know his name. The sound of the door opening had alerted the men to her presence, and as one they turned to her, anger and hate in their eyes. Her heart thundered wildly in her chest, and she kept one hand on the door, ready to bolt and run.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" David all but snarled at her. There was no trace of the bumbling affection he'd shown in the kitchen the other morning; he looked positively furious, and in that moment, Ruth was terrified of him. "Can't you read?"

"I - I - " Ruth stuttered, but no excuses were forthcoming.

"Is she going to be trouble?" Connor asked David quietly, as if Ruth weren't standing only a few paces away.

The threat of violence and calamity hung heavy in the air for a terrible moment, but before David could reply there came the sound of the front door of the pub opening once again, and then a voice rang out behind her.

"Ruthie?"

She could have cried, she was so relieved to see George come sauntering into view. Though she did not know why he had come, or how he had known where to find her, she was so thankful to him for stepping up that she did not even flinch when he wrapped one arm around her waist.

"There you are," George said, smiling that gentle smile of his, though there was something in his eyes, something scared and slightly wild that told her he was just as concerned by this little gathering as was she. "I wondered where you'd got off to. Ready to go?"

She forced herself to smile at him and nodded before turning back to David, who was staring at her as if she'd just grown a second head.

"I just wanted to let you know I'm off," she told him, trying to sound as innocent and untroubled as she could manage, as if she did not see anything strange about this gathering of men before her, and was only thinking fond thoughts of a night out with George.

"Right," David answered slowly. "Have fun, then."

Ruth smiled at him brightly, and allowed George to lead her from the room, her heart hammering all the while. As they walked he kept his arm around her, and she clung to him, her whole body trembling from the adrenaline the encounter had sent coursing through her veins. She had a thousand questions to ask him, but she knew that this was not the place, that she could not simply stop and demand to know what the bloody hell was going on while they were standing on the pavement in full view of all and sundry. For his part George seemed to have reached the same conclusion, for he did not speak a word as he guided her through the streets and back to his flat.

Once inside they each breathed a sigh of relief, as George released his hold on her and turned to lock the door, leaning back against it once the job was done and surveying her with pleading eyes.

"Thank you," she said in a trembling voice.

George shrugged, bashful as always in the face of gratitude or praise. "I saw you go in," he explained. "I had to get you out of there."

"What's going on?" Ruth demanded, wrapping her arms around her waist in an attempt to calm her fraying nerves.

George did not answer, asking instead, "You want a beer?" and pushing past her to make his way towards the kitchen.

The flat was rather nice, considering it was small and its sole occupant was a twenty-two year old dock worker with an unsavory bunch of friends. It was neat and tidy, and the furniture was clean, though obviously secondhand. Ruth followed George to the little kitchen, and took a seat at his table, accepting the bottle of beer he offered her with a softly murmured, "Thanks." She did not usually drink beer, but on this night, she felt she could make an exception.

George sat down next to her, running a hand over his untidy red hair and taking a long drink before he spoke again. "Something bad is happening at the docks, Ruthie," he told her seriously. "There was that business with the container last week, and now they've told us all to take the day off tomorrow. Something is coming in on a ship tonight, and they don't want anyone around to see what it is. That's what the meeting was about; they're going to unload the ship themselves. I was waiting because I wanted to talk to the Englishman, tell him what's going on, but then I saw you, and I had to do something."

Ruth's head was spinning; events were moving far too quickly for her liking. Not for the first time she dearly wished that James was with her, that he could comfort her with that warm voice of his, offer the wisdom of his experience and assurances that everything would be all right.

"James isn't here," she told him softly. "He left, early this morning or late last night, whichever, and he hasn't come back."

"I was afraid of that," George sighed.

"We have to do something." Even as she spoke the words Ruth felt childish and silly; she was not a spy, had no experience dealing in darkness and secrets, and she knew that she did not stand a chance against David Shaw and Connor Kelly. There was a soft, understanding sort of expression on George's face that told her too plainly of the futility of her suggestion.

"There's nothing _to_ do, Ruthie," he told her. "We have no evidence, no proof, and if we get caught talking to the authorities, it'll be us what gets blown up next."

A shiver ran down Ruth's spine at the thought. Seeing her fear, George reached out and caught her hand in his own. His hands were big and calloused from his work, rough and hard as cinderblocks, but Ruth drew comfort from his touch nonetheless. It was strange to think that she had found a friend in the midst of all of this madness, but she was indebted to George for the kindness he had shown her.

"Who was that boy, sitting with Ryan?" she asked after a moment as she gently removed her hand from his grip. She was touched by George's concern for her, but she would not give him cause to think of her as more than a friend, not when her thoughts were so consumed by James, not when her heart belonged to another. "I think I've seen him before."

George nodded, trying and failing to hide his disappointment at the loss of their connection. "His name is Paul, works down at the station. Your friend Lily is sweet on him, she's brought him here a time or two."

Ruth nodded, and took another drink. The list of their enemies seemed to be growing by the second, and she could not see safe passage out of this labyrinth of horror. _Oh, James,_ she thought despondently, _where are you?_

"You'll need to stay here for a while," George said, the tips of his ears turning pink as he dropped his gaze down to his toes. "Since they think we've gone out somewhere. I could cook you some supper, if you like."

 _He really is a sweet boy,_ Ruth mused as she watched him across the table. Kind, and thoughtful, gentle and not given to outbursts of anger, hardworking and unassuming. He had rescued her and now was offering her a meal, though he knew she had taken up with another. Ruth had no wish to hurt him, no desire to encourage those affections she did not return, but she knew that he was right, and that she needed to stay a while longer, and so she decided to make the best of it.

"Supper would be lovely," she told him.


	41. Chapter 41

**2 April 1985**

Though he was exhausted Harry barely slept upon his return to Galway. He spent the long dark hours of the night turning over and over his copious notes, scribbled haphazardly in his little leatherbound notebook, the words written in a code he hoped would keep them safe from prying eyes. Feverishly he tried to recall his every meeting with Paul, tried to determine if the lad had ever in word or deed given himself away as a possible betrayer. Try though he might he could not place his finger on a single instance in which he had been given cause to doubt Paul, but this offered him no comfort. Traitors came in all shapes and sizes, and even if Paul himself were not delivering misinformation, it was entirely possible that somewhere along the chain of informants there was a mole Harry had yet to identify. It had become apparent to him, after this latest disaster, that something was amiss in Galway.

The rising sun was a welcome sight; though his head was pounding and his eyes felt gritty as sandpaper, the chance for a hot meal, a cup of coffee, and perhaps a visit with Ruth was delectable indeed. Harry roused himself from his position on the bed, gathered and hid away his notes, and then shuffled off for a shower and a shave. Feeling slightly more human, he made his way downstairs and into the dining room.

No one was about this morning save for Ruth herself, sitting on a stool behind the bar with a book and a cup of tea close to hand, just as she had been on the night he first met her. Harry smiled at her softly; there was something lovely, something peaceful about her, her apparent absorption in the task at hand. Though everything else around him was chaos she remained steady, calm and quiet and gentle, the touch of her hand, the burning brilliance of her eyes offering him comfort in his distress. In that moment he longed to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and breathe in the heady scent of her hair, to lose himself inside of her radiance. There was no one about, but Harry knew that such an embrace would be folly in this most public of places, and so he crossed the room slowly, and took a seat across the bar from her, only just managing to stop his wayward hand from reaching out to caress her porcelain cheek.

"Good morning," he murmured to her, his lips barely moving as he sat captivated and ravenous for her.

"Good morning," she answered, her gaze fixed firmly on her book though the corners of her mouth ticked up in a tight little smile, the dimples he loved so well dancing in her cheeks.

"Did you miss me?" he asked her playfully.

At those words Ruth's smile faltered and fled, and she carefully closed her book, rising off her stool to fetch him down a cup of coffee. She took her time about it, adding milk and sugar just the way he liked it, before she returned to him once more with fear in her eyes.

"I missed you more than I can say," she told him in a voice that did not carry past his ears. "There's trouble coming, James," she continued. Her eyes darted wildly around the room, as if she feared that his enemies were hiding in the very walls, waiting for him to let his guard down so that they might strike and deal him a mortal blow. "They've closed the docks for the day, and David and Connor Kelly were in here last night with a few of the lads making plans. I don't know what they're up to, but it must be something bad."

 _Shit,_ Harry thought glumly.

"Which lads?" he asked, matching her quiet tone, his eyes joining hers in searching out the corners of the room, his ears trained for the sound of footfalls in the doorway behind him. The hairs at the nape of his neck seemed to stand on end; it went against all his spook's instincts, sitting with his back to the door, but he did not wish to move, could not bring himself to put any more distance between his body and Ruth's.

"Ryan, Sean, a few boys from the docks I don't know, and a lad called Paul who works at the station."

"Shit." This time, Harry did curse aloud. Ruth started at the vehement sound of his voice, her eyes perplexed and terrified.

"James-"

"Shit." he said again. And then "I have to go, Ruth. I have to put an end to this, now, before things get any worse."

"Wait! James, please, _wait,_ " she begged him, reaching out to halt his progress with a gentle hand on his wrist. "If you go storming in there now you'll get yourself killed. You need help."

"Where do you suggest I find it?" he asked her, not unkindly. He felt himself to be in an untenable position; he could not trust any of his agents, he had no backup, had no institutional knowledge of the dockyards, and he had no bloody _time._ He had only his fear, and his need of vengeance, burning deep in the pit of his gut. If Paul had been working with the Kellys all along, then it was on his shoulders Harry could place the death of young Sullivan; Paul had known about Harry's inside man, and had no doubt relayed that information to his cronies. That was a sin that could not go unanswered for.

Once more Ruth's eyes roamed across the dining room, and when she was satisfied that they were still alone she reached for her book. From inside the back cover she withdrew a small bundle of papers and passed it over to him furtively.

"It's a map of the dockyard," she told him in a hushed whisper. "The container farm and the loading docks."

Despite the danger lurking in the air Harry leaned across the bar and kissed her on the lips, so great was his relief and his gratitude to her.

"Do I even want to ask how you got this?" he asked as he tucked the papers inside his jacket pocket and prepared to depart.

"Best not," she answered, her cheeks flushed pink from his kiss.

"What would I do without you, Ruth?" he asked her earnestly, wondering, not for the first time, at his fortune, having discovered her, this girl so lovely, so eager to help him, so convinced of the righteousness of his cause. He didn't deserve her, he knew, but now was not the time to dwell upon his own inadequacies.

"Make a mess of things, most like," she answered, though her worried tone did not quite match the playfulness of her words. "Promise me you'll be careful, James," she implored him.

"I promise," he lied. He stole one more kiss, and then all but ran from the room, hell bent on revenge.

* * *

The map Ruth had given him was a godsend; it marked a hidden entrance to the dockyards, well disguised behind a copse of gnarled trees, and Harry slipped through the unlocked gate quite easily, marveling at his luck. It was a bright spring morning, birds trilling merrily, the sun shining down on him gleefully, and he began to regret having worn his jackets as the sweat pooled at the small of his back. He needed the cover, though, to disguise the pistol he carried in the waistband of his trousers and to give him a safe place to store his little map. He followed the footpath around the perimeter of the yard, bent on reaching the loading dock. He had a little camera in his jacket as well; he knew that it was folly, to try to take on his opponents single-handedly, and so had resigned himself to simply snapping photographs of them in action to be forwarded on to Gower Street in the hopes of securing trustworthy reinforcements.

Harry kept himself in the shadow of the containers, slipping from one to the next to the next until he neared the edge of the dockyard. He could see a single ship, and the long heavy crane extending from the shore to the sea already loaded with a bright blue container, swinging erratically off to the left. Here he paused and took a photo of the ship; he was close enough to read her name, _The Emerald Star,_ splashed across the bow in peeling black paint. As he watched the container was slowly lowered to the ground, and he did his best to mark its resting place, knowing that he might not have another chance to see what was inside. It had been dropped perhaps five hundred meters from his location; he studied the map for a moment, knowing that he would not be able to travel in a straight line once he began to move among the labyrinth before him. Satisfied that he knew where he was going he set off once more, his whole body fairly trembling with the effort of listening out for the tramp of enemy feet.

By the time he reached the row where the new contraband container had been dropped he was sweating in earnest. In a bid to keep himself out of sight he scaled a nearby container, nearly losing his grip as his damp palms slipped and slid on the handhold. Once he had reached the top he laid himself flat on his belly and scooted to the rim, the sun-baked metal scorching him even through his clothing.

Below him a team of men were tramping towards the container, one of them driving a pickup truck along the narrow track. Harry photographed each of the men in turn, and the truck as well; in a stroke of good fortune, he was given a clear view of the truck's number plate. There amongst them was Paul, loafing about at a distance from the action as if he were overseeing the whole operation, and the sight of him loosed a quiet rage in Harry's heart.

 _It's not so very far,_ Harry thought as he stared down at the lad with the taste of hatred thick as bile in his mouth. _I could shoot him, from here._ He _could_ , but he also knew that doing so now would be tantamount to suicide, giving away his position and leaving him vulnerable to an enemy that outnumbered him six to one. His gun only held five bullets; he didn't fancy those odds. And so he settled for taking more pictures, though it galled him to remain inactive in the presence of a traitor.

The men heaved the door to the container open and began unloading a few small pallets of freight, tucking the boxes into the bed of the truck and muttering to one another too softly for Harry to hear. The boxes were plain and nondescript, giving no clues as to what might be inside. Finally, the task was done; it seemed a lot of effort, to Harry's mind, for one small load of boxes. He had plenty of photographs, though, and he hoped that with them he might be able to achieve some progress at last.

"That's it then, lads," Paul declared after he finished counting the boxes. "Off you trot. Max, get this lot to Kelly, quick as you can. You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

The sour-faced man Paul had spoken to spat and grumbled, but climbed behind the wheel of the truck and drove off despite his apparent distaste for his orders. The other men closed up the container and departed without further incident, leaving Paul loitering alone on the path. Harry's trigger finger twitched; sounds didn't carry naturally in this forest of metal, and he had a much better internal map of the area than when he'd last ventured here. It would be easy enough to strike now and run for cover, when Paul was alone and all unsuspecting. He hesitated, though; if the lad was waiting, there had to be a reason for it, and Harry wanted to know what it was.

The reason, as it turned out, was Ryan Kelly, who came sauntering into view, and reached out to shake Paul's hand when he drew near.

"All sorted, then?" Ryan asked with an unbecoming air of self-importance.

"It's all here. Guns, plastic explosives, triggers, everything. I counted the boxes, looks like we got what we ordered."

 _Shit,_ Harry thought. This was bigger than he'd realized; though he knew that the cargo was dangerous, he somehow hadn't quite reckoned on the magnitude of the destructive capabilities of those boxes.

"Da will be happy," Ryan said, rubbing his hands together in glee.

"And the Englishman?" Paul asked.

"Do what you like with him. You're meeting him on Friday?"

"I am," Paul said, nodding, "but I can push that forward a bit. I can have him floating in the canal tonight, if you like."

"The sooner the better," Ryan agreed.

 _Oh, like hell,_ Harry thought, reaching for his pistol. He'd lost his taste for swimming after enjoying a few days of IRA hospitality in Belfast, and he knew that Ryan, cowardly little shite that he was, would choose to save his own skin in the face of violence rather than resort to an sort of heroics. He raised his gun, took a deep breath, aimed true, and shot Paul between the eyes, or as close to it as he could manage. Paul crumpled to the ground in a lifeless pile, Ryan let out a squeal like a frightened rabbit and took off running, and Harry remained where he was just long enough to determine that his exit was clear before he slipped off the container and bolted back to Shaw's. Though it galled him, he tossed his pistol into the canal when he reached it, knowing that having it in his possession marked him now, left him open to inquiries. The Kellys might be foolish enough to call the police, to concoct some story about how Harry had threatened the lad, and he could not allow himself to be incriminated, not now, not yet.

As he reached the pub he slowed, struggling to regulate his breathing, trying to give the appearance of nonchalance despite his thundering pulse and sweaty hands. He wiped his brow once, and then slipped into the pub, making a beeline for the bar. A few guests had gathered, in the two hours since he'd departed, but Ruth was still behind the bar, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her.

"Cup of coffee and a fry up, love," he said as he took his seat at the bar. Ruth raised an incredulous eyebrow at him, but he just smiled. He was starving and exhausted, but he had removed one cancerous tumor from his operation in Galway, likely struck fear into the heart of at least one Kelly, and he had with his timely disposal of his weapon and his arrival in Shaw's dining room created an alibi for himself, however flimsy. He had a camera full of photographs, and for the first time in months, he saw a ray of hope.

* * *

Ruth passed the day in a flurry of impatience, counting down the minutes until she could escape to Jame's room. Whatever he'd got up to on the dockyard he had returned to her in one piece, sweaty and red-faced and smiling a mad, exultant sort of smile. That smile had filled her with trepidation; he had not been gone so very long, and she worried about what he must have seen, what he must have done.

 _He's a dangerous man,_ she reminded herself as she wiped down the bar for the thousandth time, keeping one eye on the doorway, waiting for David to arrive and relieve her. Though James had never been anything but chivalrous towards her she could not help but recall the first night she'd spent in his arms, the scars that marked his body, his casual dismissal of broken bones and hurried flight through the city streets. It stood to reason that, having been on the receiving end of such violence, Harry had meted out his fair share in his time, and this thought gave her pause. Ruth could not shake the memories that every Irishman carried in their heart, the bitter recriminations of British wrongdoing that had been passed down from generation to generation, the tribulations of their northern brothers still beholden to the crown. Though Ruth did not go in much for politics she could not help but wonder what James had done in the name of Queen and country, could not help but wonder if she would still love him, still respect him, if she knew the extent of his work. Bringing down a man who had bombed a hotel just to kill the PM and her cabinet seemed to Ruth to be a noble cause, as was the work he was doing even now to stop the Kellys who sowed fear and discord everywhere they went, but as for the rest of it, she could not say. Their allegiances were divided, she knew, and for the first time she found herself afraid, thinking of the man she'd given her heart to, the glory and the horror of him.

Finally David arrived and tersely dismissed her. On leaden feet she returned to her home, showered and changed and scarfed down a bite of toast, waiting impatiently for darkness to fall. As soon as she reckoned it was clear she set out, slipping through the side door of the pub, up the stairs to knock upon James's door.

He opened it at once, and for the space of a heartbeat she almost smiled at him, to see the way his face lit up when he recognized his visitor. Once again he was clad only in a pair of pajama trousers, his broad, solid chest naked and tantalizing before her, and she spared a moment to wonder at this exhibitionist streak in him before he reached out, caught her by the waist, and drew her into the room and into his arms before she had a chance to speak. The bulk of him pressed her back against the door, one strong thigh slipping between her legs even as his tongue delved deeply into her mouth. She was caught off guard by the passion of his advances, the gentleness of the hand that cradled her cheek and the insistence of the hand that slipped beneath her jumper to knead her breast through her bra, pulling forth a deep, needy sound of want from her lips unbidden.

"I want you," he murmured, his lips leaving a trail of suckling kisses along her neck as his hand abandoned her cheek and turned instead to her skirt, gathering up the fabric and slipping beneath it.

"James," she gasped as his fingers traveled up her thigh to brush against her knickers, her desire for him and her desire for answers quarreling mightily in her heart. She did not know which she wanted more in that moment, could not decide which way she might fall, and the heat of him, the illicit promise of his touch rendered her all but incapable of speech.

"All day," he growled against her neck, "I've been thinking of you." As he spoke his fingers slipped beneath the elastic of her knickers, and she gave up any attempt to keep him at bay, drawing him to her with her hands on his bum, feeling his hardness thrusting against her hip as his finger slipped inside her, and she lost all sense of reason. Later she could ask him what he'd done, why. For now all that mattered was this, was him, and her, together.

* * *

In the darkness Harry watched her sleeping, the steady rise and fall of her chest, her shining hair spilled out in a halo against his white pillowcases. It was in his heart to feel ashamed of the way he had all but jumped on her, the moment she knocked on his door, the way he had escaped from his own demons in the heat and the glorious rapture of her. The truth was, the moment he saw her he could think of nothing more than having her, there and then, and the sound of her cries as he thrust himself inside her, her body held fast between his own and the door, her legs locked tight around his hips as she trembled and shook in her abandon had restored some vital sense of humanity to him that he feared he had lost. He had killed a man that morning, and loved Ruth that night, and he could not reconcile those dueling aspects of his own fickle nature.

He reached out and trailed the tips of his fingers along her spine, thinking how small she was, how delicate, fragile and fine and _good,_ and not for the first time he wondered what it was she could possibly see in a shadow of a man like himself. She would be better off without him, he knew, and yet selfishly he could not seem to hold himself aloof from her. She owned him, body and soul.

"You should sleep," she grumbled softly, not opening her eyes.

Harry smiled and kissed her temple before settling down in the bed beside her. The film cartridge from his camera and a coded message detailing the contents of the container were even now in the hands of a trusted courier on their way to Gower Street, and Harry had plans to ring Clive the following evening to discuss arrangements. He felt his time in Galway was fast drawing to a close, and so resolved to enjoy every fleeting, precious moment he could spend beside this woman he loved so dearly.


	42. Chapter 42

**A/N: This chapter is M rated.**

* * *

 **19 July 2006**

"When you said you wanted to take me dancing, this isn't quite what I had in mind," Ruth told him, her voice escaping on a shaky half-laugh, half-sigh as he pressed her further back against the door, her legs wrapped tight around his waist and his hands ghosting along the smooth skin of her thighs beneath her dress. He chuckled against her neck where his lips had taken up residence, relishing the racing of her pulse beneath his tender touch. It wasn't quite what he'd had in mind, either, when he'd walked behind her into the restaurant earlier in the evening, but somewhere along the line his intentions had changed, the beauty and the brilliance of her turning the tide of his thoughts in one inevitable direction. He had sat across the table from her, thinking only of this, of her, warm and receptive beneath him, and so when they finished their meal he had taken her by the hand, and led her back to the pub, slipping through the side door and up the stairs to his room. She had offered no resistance, and the minute the door closed behind them he had her pinned against it, unable to stop the wandering of his hands across her body while she shivered and sighed in his arms.

"Just say the word, and we can go out," he told her, though as the fingers of his right hand brushed against the dampness that was even now soaking through her knickers he recognized that she would not be asking him to stop any time soon. Her arms were locked tight around his neck, and as he touched her she thrust down against his hand, seeking more of him even as she sighed his name. It was bliss, to hear her finally call him _Harry,_ to know that they had come through so much calamity unscathed, that she was still here with him, ready and willing and wanton in his arms. Much as he longed to finish what he'd started there against the door his dodgy knee was already lodging a vociferous protest, and so he caught her thighs in his hands, gently lowering her to the ground even as he kissed her lips one more, assuring her with his tongue that though he was releasing her for the moment, he had no intention of letting her go.

As ever, Ruth understood him without need of words, and so she planted her feet on the floor once more, her hands now free to roam across his back, rucking up his shirt and slipping beneath it to draw unsteady patterns against the broad expanse of his back. Still he kissed her, drunk on the taste of her, delighted and enchanted and desperate for more. He wasn't sure what he'd done, to deserve her ardor, her affection, her time, her touch, her trust, but he was grateful for it, and he was determined to wring every last measure of pleasure he could from their encounter, to forge ahead with her in hopes of building a future that might last, to rewrite the crumbling ruins of their past.

* * *

Samuel Burns stood stock-still, his body strung taught as a bow as he watched the men before him spreading out. There were five of them, dressed in dark clothes and muttering to one another in the lilting local dialect. For a single moment he prevaricated, doubting the best course of action; he had a team of two men stationed about ten meters from his position on the left, and two more twenty meters straight in front of him, and Benny by his side. Six trained operatives against five hardscrabble louts; Burns rather liked those odds, though he would have preferred to have a greater advantage. He had hoped to catch Kelly himself, but now he realized that was folly, that Ryan Kelly's cowardice would have won out over his recklessness, and kept him well away from the trouble on the docks. The best he could hope for, he supposed, was to capture these men, dump them in cells in the local police station, and wait for one of them to talk.

"All right boys," he whispered into his mic, preparing to give the order, but even as he opened his mouth to speak, another man appeared along the path.

"Hold," he said quickly, watching, all bemused, as Ryan Kelly came stumbling into view, looking shifty-eyed and nervous.

"Any sign?" Kelly called to his men, who turned as one to stare at him incredulously, as if even they were shocked by the foolishness of his speaking so loudly when they were in the very act of hunting their prey. Burns didn't much mind; Kelly's arrival was a boon, and he was prepared to capitalize on it.

"Move in," he growled.

* * *

"Harry," Ruth moaned, naked and writhing in his bed as with his lips and tongue and fingers together he brought her up and over the edge, the taste of her, the velvety softness of her folds beneath his touch, the sound of her cries more exquisite than any of his memories. In the instant of her release her inner muscles clamped down hard against his fingers, holding him in a vice-like grip, and so he left his hand right where it was, kissing his way up her sweat-slicked body until his lips wrapped one taut, dusky pink nipple, and her whole body trembled at the contact. Her hands were fisted in his sheets, her hair spilled out across the pillowcase in a dark, cascading wave, the lines and curves of her tense and tight and glorious to behold. It was in his mind to tell her again how much he loved her, how beautiful she was, how holding her like this once more had rekindled the slumbering beast within his heart, brought him back to life when he had felt himself fading into shadows. Now was not the time for such a declaration though, he knew, when sensation had left her reeling and focused solely on the pleasure of his touch.

It seemed she was coming back to herself, however, as he continued his gentle assault on her breast, his lips and teeth scoring her soft skin, leaving a mark where no one could see save him, save her, save the only two people in the world who needed to know the momentousness of what they were sharing together in his bed on this night. He liked the way she whimpered with the delirious, delicate sting of the pain, the way her legs rose up to clutch him closer to her while he continued the relentless onslaught, the way her hips ground against him all the harder, his hand still trapped between their bodies and feverishly building her up towards another peak. There was something wild about Ruth, about the way this woman who was usually so reticent and reserved could give herself up so wholly to her feverish passions, and for a fleeting moment a dark and bitter voice whispered to him, asking if she reserved such abandon for him, or if she were just as responsive in Sean Kelly's arms. _Likely not,_ he tried to reassure himself even as he finally released her and took a moment to admire his handiwork, the darkening bruise stark and undeniable against the pale curve of her breast; surely mild-mannered, respectable Sean Kelly had not discovered the delight and the rapture of a Ruth completely released from all her inhibitions. _And anyway, you've more important things to focus on just now._

Like the fact that Ruth was rapidly approaching her second orgasm; the muscles of his forearm were clenched tight, already tiring of the effort, but he would not relent until he felt her come again, and so he joined his hips to his hand, grinding against her even as he thrust within her, and with a strangled cry she tumbled from the ledge.

* * *

As he and his men moved out of the shadows, Samuel Burns was exulting, certain that success was within his grasp.

They moved as one, Burns and his five compatriots, stepping out onto the path to encircle their six would-be captives, announcing their identities in clear voices, guns raised and at the ready. Ryan Kelly turned and tried to run, and found himself neatly felled by a heavy blow at the hands of one of Burns's men. The other goons took one look at Ryan Kelly sprawled across the grass and immediately dropped their weapons. Burns and his team did not relent; Peters, the young man who'd struck Ryan Kelly, was even now turning the man over onto his stomach, lashing his hands behind his back with zip ties. The rest of the team secured his fellows, none of whom spoke a word throughout the process.

"Home, this is Alpha One," Burns spoke into his microphone. There was a young technical analyst called Tommy who had set up shop in the police station, monitoring their progress and standing ready to assist as needed. "We've got six of 'em. We're loading them up now, heading your way. ETA thirty minutes."

"Copy that, Alpha One," Tommy answered.

No one spoke a word, as they tramped along the path, each of Burns's agents holding one of the Kelly men by the arm. They reached the car park and shuffled their prisoners into the vehicles, but even as Burns slammed the car door in Ryan Kelly's face, there came from behind them a great echoing boom.

 _Shit,_ Burns thought, watching the pall of smoke rising above the container farm. He could not risk leaving the men unattended, lest the explosion prove to be some sort of diversion intended to gain freedom for his captives, but likewise he could not bear the thought of waiting around for backup while whoever was behind that destruction escaped unscathed. _Shit._

"You lot," he pointed to four of his men. "Stay here. Benny, with me."

And with that he and Benny took off running towards the smoke, his heart pounding in time to the slap of his feet upon the ground.

* * *

"Christ," Harry swore, unable to contain the sound of his own pleasure. Beneath him Ruth was trembling, her face buried in the pillows, her shoulders straining against his chest. He slid along her back, tasting the salty sweetness of her skin even as he thrust himself once more into her trembling heat, drawing from her lips a tremulous gasp. The pounding of his body against hers grew frenzied, as he raced towards his own completion, and she countered each powerful thrust of his hips with her own tantalizing movement, urging him ever onward as they struggled and strained and fell apart, together. She was addictive, delicious, and he was consumed by her, consumed by his own reckless need. Every dream he had harbored in his heart led back to this, led back to her, led back to the feeling of the pair of them joined in a way he had never truly experienced with another, knowing every piece of her, knowing that she understood him just as well, knowing that while their bodies danced together their hearts drew ever closer, bound by ties he could neither see nor comprehend. There was a magnificence to this, to them, their every gasp, every moan, every touch a benediction, hurtling them into a world of their own making, one where they were free to do and be as they pleased, and damn all the rest. Damn his pride, damn his job, damn her fear and the pub and everyone who had ever spoken a cruel word to her; they were transcendent in this place.

She whimpered, the movements of her hips stuttering as she lost what little remained of her self-control, and Harry thrust into her trembling heat relentlessly until with a cry she shattered, and the clenching and fluttering of her muscles around his rock-hard length drew him so deep within her that for one mad moment he fancied they had become one singular body, never to be torn asunder. And then his release crashed into him, and with a roar he emptied himself inside her, riding the rising wave of their combined euphoria until at last he was spent and his weary arms gave way beneath him. He crumpled into her, his cock still buried inside her, and breathed in the heady scent of her hair, certain for a moment that he must surely have died, so tremendous was his relief and his joy and his rapture.

* * *

 _This is a bad idea,_ Burns thought, but still his feet carried him forward, following the siren song of the rising smoke. He and Benny slowed, as they reached the smoldering remains of the container they had only just abandoned; there was no one in sight, but Burns knew this didn't mean anything. There could be a hundred men, hiding in that insidious darkness.

Benny shot him a questioning look, and though he knew it was folly, Burns gestured for him to take the right side of the container, while Burns himself took the left. They would circle around it, meet in the rear, and if no enemies were found, they would sit tight until backup arrived. Already he had heard his men calling in for reinforcements over the comms; it would not be long before the plods arrived, though this thought offered him little comfort.

Alone now he traveled into the shadow of the container, trying to suppress the shiver of fear that ran down his spine. It wasn't so much ground to cover, he knew, but the threat of danger hung heavy in the air, and his every instinct was telling him to turn tail and run. Now.

Just as he reached the back of the container he heard the sharp rapport of gunfire off to his right.

 _Shit._

"Home, we've got trouble," he muttered into his comms. He waited a beat, giving Benny a chance to report whether he was injured, but no response was forthcoming. "Alpha Two is down," Burns added grimly. He hoped Benny was all right, perhaps locked in a struggle, perhaps merely grazed and not speaking in an attempt to keep himself hidden, but somewhere deep in his heart he knew. He had heard the shots, could smell the acrid smoke of the burning container, and he knew, somehow, that death was upon them.

From behind him he heard the sound of running footfalls, and so he spun, gun at the ready, but he saw only Sean Kelly, standing empty-handed and confused in the feeble circle of light on the path.

"Was that gunfire?" Kelly asked, a desperate, frightened tone to his voice. "Was that you?"

Burns kept his gun up, taking two wary steps towards Kelly. The man held no weapon, and he seemed flustered, confused. Burns couldn't tell which direction he'd come from, but all of his intelligence pointed towards Sean being the reasonable Kelly. He prayed he was not wrong.

"Do you see anyone?" Burns barked.

Kelly shook his head. "I found out my gobshite brother was planning something down here. Said that English bastard was going to cause some trouble, and I came to stop it. Is the Englishman here?"

Burns shook his head, still continuing his slow approach. "He's tucked up safe in his bed, most like."

Kelly's shoulders slumped. "Damn," he said. And then, before Burns even realized what was happening, he drew a gun from behind his back, and fired three times. The impact of the bullets into his chest sent Burns crumpling to the ground, the gun tumbling uselessly from his numb fingertips.

"Shit," Burns groaned. "I'm hit," he cried, desperately hoping Tommy could hear him, but before he could speak another word Kelly was on him, gun drawn. The last thing Samuel Burns ever saw was Sean Kelly's face, looming above him like a demon in the darkness. Kelly fired one last time, and Burns's vision went black.

"Shouldn't have been you, mate," Sean told the dead man grimly as he tucked his gun back beneath his shirt. "English bastard should have done his own dirty work."

And with that he left the two dead men lying on either side of the container, and struck off towards the far side of the docks, away from the carpark and the rest of the spooks. This night had not gone to plan, but he trusted that Ryan and the rest would keep their mouths shut. Only Ryan knew the extent of Sean's involvement in the gunrunning business, and Sean knew the cowardly little shit would not talk. There was no power greater than that of fear, he knew, and what Ryan Kelly feared more than anything else was the wrath of his older brother.

* * *

Ruth was lying across his chest, her gaze focused intently on his hand as with her fingertips she traced the veins and scars that mottled his skin. For his part Harry found he could not look away from her face, from her sated, hooded eyes, her kiss-swollen lips, the high, sharp curve of her cheekbone, the delicate blush that still stained her porcelain skin. Perhaps it was foolish of him, to love her so completely, but in that moment his heart felt full to bursting with her, and he could not bring himself to regret it.

"Is that what you really want, then?" she asked him softly. They had been trading gentle words, dancing around the notion of what came next for them, and he had whispered the word retirement into her hair, rousing her from her half-sleep state and into wakefulness once again.

"It's not far off, regardless of I want," he told her, raising his head to kiss the curve of her shoulder. "If I have to go, I would rather it be on my own terms. And I can think of no terms more agreeable than these."

She flashed a brilliant smile at him, but before he could continue they were disturbed by the ringing of his mobile. Ruth slid off him, pouting slightly, and he kissed her once, unable to restrain himself, before digging around in his discarded trousers for the phone. He sat up, cleared his throat, and answered the call.

"Harry Pearce," he said.

"Harry, it's John," came the most unwelcome voice in the entire world. "I need you down at the station, now. Samuel Burns has been murdered."


	43. Chapter 43

**24 April 1985**

Though Harry had at the time believed his actions to be just, in the days following his rather impulsive elimination of the cancer within his operation in Galway the full ramifications of Paul's death slowly began to sink in, and with them came a wave of bitter remorse. There was no doubt that Paul was a traitor; Harry had gotten his hands on the security footage from the night when Patrick Magee was meant to have boarded the train to Limerick, and seen with his own eyes that no one matching Magee's description had been anywhere near the station. He had ransacked Paul's flat and discovered a diary detailing the lad's deceptions, and weapons, and a store of cash that could not be accounted for, and he had more than once passed Ryan Kelly on the street, only to see that young man's face go white as a sheet before he turned and fled from Harry's presence. Yes, Harry had been justified in his anger towards the traitor in his midst, but by killing Paul so quickly, without taking the time to work him over, to learn just how mixed up in the affairs of the Kelly family he really was, Harry had neatly cut himself off at the knees. A heavy, leaden sense of fear had settled in his gut. Everywhere he went he looked over his shoulder, worried that if the police weren't after him the Kellys would be, their reprisals swift and terrible.

One day passed into the next, with no word from London, no sign of relief, and no movement on the docks. Harry's latest recruit, a local lad called Martin, had yet to turn up any useful information; Martin was young, and was not as yet in the Kellys' confidences. He could do no more than report to Harry about the daily goings-on at the dockyard, and his briefings were painfully dull; it seemed that Paul's death had spooked Harry's quarry, and there had been no indication of any strange shipments or late-night meetings or unexplained incendiary incidents. Spring had just begun, the trees and flowers bursting forth in an ecstatic wave, though many had not yet unfolded in earnest, and it seemed to Harry that the whole world was holding its breath. Time itself seemed frozen into a single crystalline instant, as Harry waited for the flowers to bloom, for aid to come, for violence and horror and clamamity to rain down upon him, waited for a strong wind to rip away the doldrums that held him paralyzed with indecision and doubt.

Through this malaise Ruth was a godsend to him, young and lovely and just naive enough to instill in Harry a sense of hope, her optimism despite their circumstances lifting him up, rather than inspiring scorn. How could it be, he wondered, that a girl who'd lost her father so young, who shared her home with a monster, who boasted few friends, who seemed to understand so well the darkness of the world around her, could maintain such a sense of wonder, such a passion for life? That sort of whimsy, that verve, that joy was infectious, and his heart grew lighter in her presence, though it grew heavy again as soon as she left his side.

Her twenty-first birthday was fast approaching, and Harry, having little else to occupy his time, had devised a plan so that they might enjoy it together. He set out on Wednesday morning, heading for a jeweler's shop a few streets away. He tried to focus on the task of buying her a present, rather than allowing himself to be caught up in thinking how his lover was turning twenty-one, while he himself had passed that mark a decade before, and had been engaged to Jane at the time. Try though he might, however, he could not shake the thoughts of his family; the next day was Catherine's fifth birthday, and Harry would be celebrating it in another country, his only contribution to the festivities a phone call planned for the late afternoon. Jane had been rather cross with him, when last they spoke, upon discovering he would not be allowed leave to return home for the event.

" _For Christ's sake, Harry, it's your daughter's birthday. You've not seen her in months. Do you mean to tell me that whatever the hell you're doing is really more important to you than her?"_

The words, uttered in anger, had struck a chord in Harry's heart; he wanted to say there was nothing in life more important to him than his children, nothing more dear, more precious than they. He knew, without a doubt, that he would lay his life down for them, and gladly, and yet he had made the choice to put his duty before his family. It would have been easy enough, he knew, to quit the service, take up some quiet post somewhere as a teacher or a policeman or private contractor, and yet, though his family seemed in danger of falling apart entirely, he persisted in his work. Though he'd spent four long months in a lonely country far from friends and family he had never once seriously entertained the notion of leaving. He wasn't sure what that said about him as a man, as a father, but he feared deep in his hear that Juliet's words had come true; presented with a choice between leaving the service or losing his family, he had not chosen, and in the end, that indecision had sealed his fate. He could practically feel his family slipping from his grasp, feel himself disappearing into shadows, and yet he did nothing to stop his descent.

A little bell above the shop door tinkled merrily as Harry entered; the only other person in the shop was a wizened old man behind the counter whose face looked as if it had been carved from wax, so lifeless and immobile was it. The old man did not make a sound, as Harry perused his wares, and for a terrible moment, Harry wondered if the shopkeeper was in fact literally dead on his feet. Eventually - to Harry's great relief - the old man roused himself, and came shuffling over to join him as he stared through the glass case at a display of rings and necklaces.

"Are you after something for the missus?" the old man asked in a quavering voice.

Harry smiled sadly; he could not recall when last he'd purchased a piece of jewelry for his wife. And yet here he was, seeking a shiny bauble to give to his mistress. He had given so much of himself to that beautiful girl, had placed upon her slender shoulders all of his doubts and his hopes and his dreams and his shame, until he had nothing left over for his wife. It had been years, since he had entrusted a secret to Jane, and yet all that he had denied her he had lavished upon Ruth without a second thought. It was a troubling realization.

"It's her birthday," he said softly. He turned away from the rings, thinking of all the heavy connotations of such a gift, all the implied promises, promises that he could never make to Ruth, by her own command. Sometimes it seemed to him that his young lover understood the impermanent nature of their affair far better than he; she was not the one, after all, who had sworn to love knowing that they could never last beyond his brief tenure in Galway. She was not the one who lay awake at night, bitterly wishing that things could be different. Ruth seemed to have come to terms with the reality of the situation, seemed to be at peace with loving him in the darkness and disavowing him in the light of day. It was Harry who could not stomach it, Harry who was seized by a desperate, irrational desire for more. _No,_ he told himself, _a ring will not do._

"That one, i think," he said, pointing to a sparkling silver necklace. It was a single, polished pearl, suspended on a fine, glittering chain, understated but lovely, and he thought it rather suited Ruth, the woman she had become over the course of their acquaintance. It was delicate, finely made, as was she, but within that delicacy there was a strength built to last. Her confidence had grown while he'd watched her, enraptured and enthralled by her; she stood a bit taller, her back a bit straighter, her head held higher, and he loved her for it. The necklace to him represented that growth; it was the sort of thing a woman might wear, too grown-up for that slip of a girl he'd first known with her stammering blushes and uncertain eyes.

"A fine choice," the old man said, though Harry rather got the feeling that would have been his response regardless of which piece Harry selected.

"And that one as well," Harry added on impulse, pointing to a heart-shaped locket resting near the back of the case. The cover of the locket was covered in intricate scrollwork, and it had an antique sort of look about it, though Harry was fairly certain it was nothing of the sort. It put him in mind of his own childhood, and a little girl who'd lived down the lane called Sally something-or-other; little Sally had worn a locket just like that one, when they were small. She had in fact been wearing it when they were thirteen years old and Harry stole his first kiss from her behind a tree in the schoolyard. He'd not purchased a single present for his daughter's birthday, but that locket called out to him, put him in mind of simpler days, and so he decided that it was only right that she should have it. Little Catherine, skinny as a post and growing like a weed; how much must she have changed, he wondered, in the time since he'd last seen her? How long would it be, he asked himself, before some fool boy was trying to win her affections, thinking of her as Harry had thought of little Sally? She was growing up much too quickly for his liking, and Harry hated himself, just a little, for missing every minute of it.

With both necklaces in hand the shopkeeper made to step away, but a niggling voice in the back of Harry's mind led him to calling out once more.

"And that," he said, pointing to a ring set with an opal. Jane had always been fond of opals, and though Harry could not recall when last she'd smiled at him, he could not help but hope that she might see that ring and smile, however briefly, that if he could not make her happy by his presence, he could at least give her something, some piece of beauty to cling to while he continued to sow discord in her life.

"That's an awful lot for one birthday," the old man said shrewdly as he retrieved the ring. "You haven't got yourself in trouble, have you?"

Harry forced himself to chuckle, assuring the shopkeeper that no, he was not trying to grovel, he simply loved his wife, and wanted her to have a wonderful birthday. The old man didn't seem convinced, but nor did he push the issue; likely this was the most business he'd had in weeks, and he didn't seem interested in dissuading Harry from his purchases.

Once he'd paid - with MI-5 funds - Harry walked down to the post office, and wrote out a brief letter before tucking the gifts for Jane and Catherine into a little box, and sending them on their way. It would not arrive in time for Catherine's birthday, but he hoped that whenever the box did finally make an appearance, it might soften their hearts towards him, just a bit. It was only as he was leaving the post office that Harry realized he had forgotten to send a gift for Graham as well.

* * *

 **29 April 1985**

James had been insistent that Ruth join him in his room on the evening of her birthday, but her friends - and George - had been equally immoveable, telling her that she should get out and celebrate, and not spend the night tucked away on her own. In the end Ruth had compromised, going out for a drink and making all the right noises and eagerly waiting for the opportunity to make her escape. Though her friends seemed not to notice her disinterest in the goings-on around her, George's eyes watched her sadly, knowingly all the while. After the meal they'd shared in his flat he had, rather delicately, not raised the subject of James or the Kellys to her again, though he had been by the pub a time or two, sitting on his own at the end of the bar with the air of a kicked puppy about him. This worried Ruth, more than she could say; she feared George knew too much, but more than that, she found herself wondering what sort of woman she was, sleeping with a married man a decade older than she, when George was waiting patiently for her, George who was good and kind and gentle and had been at school with her. It wasn't fair, that her heart should belong so completely to James, when she knew that he could bring her only sorrow. And yet, she could not change it, could not redirect her affections from one man to the other.

So it was that she was feeling rather maudlin, as she snuck once more into the upstairs of the pub. Though she should have been happy on this day, she found the whole thing rather tawdry, the sneaking about, the stolen moments used more for kissing than talking. Wasn't that what the old folks said, about men who bedded younger girls? _He's only after one thing, love._ Maybe that was true, or maybe James really did love her; Ruth could not say for certain, and that doubt rankled.

She knocked upon the door, wondering if he would once more pin her against it, would once more take what he was after and fall asleep sated and untroubled, while she was left chewing her lip, consumed by doubts. After a moment James opened it, and all of those bitter thoughts left her at once at the sight of his gentle smile.

"Come in," he said, holding out his arm to welcome her. That made a rather nice change of pace, she thought as she slipped through the door; usually his hands descended upon her the moment he saw her.

Her breath caught in her throat, as she looked about the room; there were candles burning on every available surface, and a little picnic had been laid upon the floor, complete with a gingham blanket and a few bottles of champagne chilling in a bucket. He'd procured a radio from somewhere, and music was playing softly. There in the center of the blanket sat a bouquet of flowers and a small, brightly wrapped parcel, and as Ruth contemplated all the trouble he'd gone to for her, as she gaped at him, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an expectant child, she kicked herself for ever doubting his affections.

"Happy birthday, Ruth," he said. His voice was almost shy, somehow, as if he weren't sure how the scene might be received, and Ruth found she could not help herself; she flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him soundly. Whatever sort of man he was, whatever his intentions, he was _hers_ , and she was determined to enjoy him. It was, after all, her birthday.


	44. Chapter 44

**19 July 2006**

The moment he arrived at the police station, Harry was met by a haggard-looking man who introduced himself as Mitchell Peters. Evidently Peters had been on the docks when Samuel Burns was killed, and had stepped up to fill the void left by that man's death. Peters was pale faced and shellshocked, but his voice did not tremble as he quietly filled Harry in on the details, explaining the operation on the dockyard, the explosion, and the discovery of the two bodies, Burns and his comrade.

"There was no sign of anyone," Peters said grimly as he escorted Harry back to a small room where a beady-eyed youth sat entrenched behind a wall of computer monitors. "There were twelve of us down there, before the explosion, so it's unlikely we'll find any evidence in the footprints. The paths are all mud, and the ground's too torn up to tell us much."

"I am sorry for your loss," Harry said sincerely, thinking of the hulking figure of Samuel Burns, the flash of grin beneath his beard, the impetuous, youthful certainty with which he'd carried himself; like so many who had gone before him, Samuel Burns had died before his time, and the grief Harry felt was as acute as if the young man had been a member of his own team. "But I have no authority here," Harry continued. He hated even speaking the words aloud, but he knew that it was the truth. Any evidence or confession Harry might glean would prove less than useless, should Kelly and his men ever be brought to trial. The work would be left to John Walsh and his boys, and so, though Harry felt for them, he could not quite understand why he had been roused from his bed, torn away from a naked and deliciously post-coital Ruth to join this grim vigil.

"No, I understand," Peters agreed. "But Walsh thinks that your presence might prove useful in making them talk. He's asked you to sit in on the interviews. Unofficially."

Harry nodded wearily. "Right. What do we know? Unofficially?"

Peters turned towards the young men. "Let him hear it, Tommy," he said, sinking down into a chair and burying his face in his hands for a moment.

"I was running obs for this operation," the other lad - Tommy - spoke up, turning to face Harry for the first time. This Tommy had the sort of pallor, the sort of slightly awkward nervousness that Harry had come to associate with technical analysts over the years, and as Tommy explained his findings, Harry found himself proven right once more. "We had mics and earpieces, but no cameras. Before he died, Sam was speaking to someone."

With a shaking hand Tommy reached out, and pressed a button on the keyboard in front of him, and the sound of Samuel's Burns hoarse whisper filled the room.

"Alpha Two is down," Burns said, and Harry felt a chill run down his spine at the thought of the man speaking to him from beyond the grave.

"Alpha Two was Benny," Tommy explained sadly.

 _Too much death,_ Harry thought. _I've had enough of it._

"Do you see anyone?" Burns called, and the sudden increase in the volume of his voice made Harry jump. He'd almost forgotten there was more to the tape, that the brief silences were only pauses between words he was meant to be listening to.

"Who is he talking to?" Harry asked, but Tommy just shook his head.

"No idea. Whoever they were, they were too far away for the mic to pick them up."

"He's tucked up safe in his bed, most like," Burns said in answer to some unheard question. The tension gathering deep in Harry's gut wound ever tighter at those words; somehow, though he could not say exactly why, he was certain that Burns had been speaking about him. After a beat, the gunshots rang out - _one, two, three -_ and there came the rattling, despairing groan of a dying man. "Shit. I'm hit!"

One more shot, and then there was only silence.

"Where was Ryan, while all this was happening?" Harry asked, turning his attentions once more to Peters. Though it was obviously difficult for the young man to listen to the sound of his friend dying, the lad rallied at Harry's question, lifting his head and straightening his shoulders.

"In one of our cars, whinging about how he'd not done anything wrong. We had the lot of 'em restrained at that point. Whoever it was, it was someone we didn't see."

Harry's mind was working feverishly, and he began to pace, running his hands over the stubble on his chin. Ryan was the key to all of this, he knew. Petulant, cowardly Ryan, always boasting about his family, his own much-embellished crimes, always eager for the juiciest gossip, always lording his own knowledge over everyone, however he got it; whoever had killed Samuel Burns and his friend Benny, Ryan Kelly would know about it. The problem was, as Harry saw it, that they had very little evidence to hold Ryan. The other lads who'd been brought in with him would all face charges for possession of illegal firearms, at the very least, but Ryan had not been armed when he'd been captured, and technically he'd not committed a crime, wandering around the dockyard. They were fast running out of time in which to question him.

"Has anyone spoken to him?" Harry asked.

Peters shook his head. "We were waiting for you, mate," he answered.

There was something desperate, almost pleading in this young man's gaze; likely he had reached the same conclusion as Harry, and decided that all his hopes for vengeance depended on Harry's success. Harry could only pray that he would not let him down.

* * *

It was not quite 11:00 p.m., when Harry left her side, his eyes wide with fear though he kissed her and tried, rather weakly, to assure her that all was well. For a few moments she had simply laid there in bed, inhaling the lingering scent of his cologne on the pillowcases, before she gave up any pretense of relaxing. She dragged herself off to the en suite for a quick shower, cleaning up the mess Harry had left behind and doing her best to make herself look presentable. As she toweled off she took a moment to stop and stare at her own reflection in the mirror, the undeniable blush that stained her cheeks no matter how she tried to quell it, the darkening bruise that colored the curve of her left breast. She ran the tips of her fingers gently over the mark, smiling and thinking fond thoughts of the man who'd left it there. Ruth had never much appreciated those sorts of attentions, the possessiveness and the juvenile nature of the gesture, but it was different somehow, coming from Harry. Much as her feminist sensibilities might protest at the thought, she rather liked the idea of belonging to him, just as he belonged to her. He had taken a piece of her heart long ago, just as she herself had taken a piece of his, and she was gradually beginning to accept that they would only truly be whole so long as they were together.

The pub was not yet closed for business, and Ruth found herself overcome by a sudden desire to see her daughter. She was much too wired to sleep, elated by the touch of Harry's hand and troubled by the suddenness of his departure, and so she made her way downstairs and into the dining room. Tonight was Wednesday evening, and given the relative lateness of the hour, there were only a few guests milling about; a young couple deep in conversation in one corner, a rowdy group of old timers throwing darts in another, a few anxious looking tourists propped up against the bar. In their midst Maren shone, a rose growing among the weeds, and Ruth smiled softly as she made her way across the room. It was in her mind to worry that perhaps Maren might notice that something was different about her; perhaps her crimson cheeks would give her away, or the shambles of her hair, or the scent of Harry's soap on her skin. She fervently hoped not, as that was not a conversation she was capable of enduring at present, not when her thoughts were milling around her head in a chaotic, euphoric jumble.

"Mum!" Maren cried in surprise when she caught sight of her. "Everything all right?" Her daughter's gaze was suspicious, but Ruth's answering smile was kind.

"I'm fine, love," she said. "Everything all right here?"

Maren nodded, moving automatically toward the long, low shelf behind her, pouring a cup of coffee and bringing it back to Ruth unasked.

"How's Mister Harrison, then?" Maren inquired tartly as she handed the coffee over.

Ruth took a long time answering, sipping her coffee and staring down at the familiar grain of the bartop in a contemplative silence. So much had happened, over the last few hours; just before he'd been called away, Harry had confided that he was thinking rather seriously of retirement, and thinking rather seriously of spending his resultant leisure time with _her_. Though he had not come right out and said it, had not invited himself into her home, her city, he had shared with her his dream that without the stress of his job they might carve out a space for themselves, might see how far this burning desire between them might be allowed to go, given attention, given time, given their best efforts. A part of Ruth's heart sang out in joy, to think of spending long, uninterrupted hours with him, no longer worrying for the safety of his body or his soul, no longer doubting his every word to her. Another part of her was more reserved, however; a little voice somewhere in the back of her mind whispered bitter words to her, spoke to her of the rush of adrenaline that had brought them together, hinted that without that danger, without the threat of their impending separation, Harry might well grow tired of her. Or worse, that he might begin to take her for granted, that he might ingratiate himself into her life, and slowly strip away her autonomy as she had seen other men do to other women, that she might be left no more than a shell of herself, should she give her heart over so completely to the care of another.

And there was the matter of Maren to be dealt with, as well. Though Ruth stubbornly insisted that she did not know for certain who her child's father was, whether it was George or Harry, those protestations were flimsy at best. Maren was more and more like him every day, and the timing of her birth pointed in one inevitable direction. Should Harry become a fixture in their lives, Ruth worried that she would be forced to reveal the truth to her daughter, and she feared that their relationship would never be the same, after.

"He's fine, love," she said finally, with a great deal more conviction than she felt.

* * *

"What's he doing here?" Ryan asked, sounding for all the world like a jilted lover, and not a man who was being investigated for murder. Harry was leaning back against the wall in one of the interrogation rooms, while Peters had taken a seat at the table across from Ryan. In truth, Harry wasn't sure he knew the answer to that question himself. He had come because he was called, because he felt he owed it to Samuel Burns to see this thing through to its conclusion, but he wasn't sure that his presence would be all that helpful, in the end. John Walsh had been insistent, however, saying that perhaps Harry would infuriate Ryan, would back him into a corner, and so Harry had conceded defeat, and accompanied him.

"I have some questions for you, Mister Kelly," Peters said, ignoring Harry altogether. "What were you doing on the docks tonight?"

"I work down there, don't I? It's my job to know what's going on. I wanted to talk to the lads." Though his words were measured the pitch of his voice rose just enough to indicate his unease; Harry fancied he could practically smell the fear coming off of Ryan Kelly just now.

"Which lads?" Peters asked in a bored sort of voice. It was a tactic designed to lull Ryan into a false sense of security, to make him think he himself was not the focus of the investigation. For his part Ryan gave them up at once, listing off the names of the five men who were even now lounging in a cell just down the hall from this room, monitored closely all the while.

"That's it?" Peters asked as he made a show of writing down the last name. "Just those five?"

"Listen, what's this about?" Ryan demanded. "I don't know where they got those guns or what they were up to, I was just there to make sure they didn't cause any trouble."

"Please answer the question, Mister Kelly. Was it just the six of you?"

Kelly stared mutinously down at the table. "Yeah, it was just the six of us," he said with a moody shrug of his shoulders.

"No one else was supposed to join you?"

"I wasn't with them!" Ryan burst out. His insistence was overdone, in Harry's opinion; lies required a lighter touch than Ryan Kelly was capable of at present.

Before Peters could speak again, Harry jumped in with a question of his own, intent on turning the tide of the conversation. "Who told you I'd come back, Ryan?" he asked in a voice pitched deliberately low. Ryan would have to keep his mouth shut in order to hear what Harry was saying, and Harry wanted the man to hang on his every word.

"Saw you at the pub, didn't I?" It was a half-hearted attempt at best; Ryan knew as well as Harry that he had not recognized him, when they'd nearly brawled in the pub what seemed like a lifetime ago, and Harry told him so.

"You didn't have any idea who I was then. Try again."

There was a long moment during which they simply stared at one another, hazel eyes boring into brown, the animosity between them palpable, but finally Ryan's shoulders sagged by a fraction.

"Connor," he grumbled.

 _That's interesting,_ Harry thought grimly.

"And how did he know?"

"Maren told him. Said her mum was having fits about some famous author coming back to town," Ryan sneered. "She know you're her father?" Ryan added quickly.

It was a move that demonstrated more shrewdness than Harry would have given him credit for, to flip the tables so quickly. Cleverness had never been Ryan's forte; clearly, he'd picked some things up over the last two decades. In front of him Harry watched Peters's shoulders tense infinitesimally at the question, confusion and professionalism warring inside him as he tried to decide whether to let Harry continue to take point, or if he ought to regain control of the interview. Peters opted for silence, for which Harry was very grateful.

"I'm not," he said softly.

Ryan was having none of it. "I saw you, in the car park," he said spitefully. "She followed you around like a lovesick puppy for months, and then I saw you with your tongue down her throat, and next thing you know she's big as a house and wearing George's ring on her finger. Doesn't take a genius to work out what happened."

"What difference does it make, Ryan? It's none of your business, anyway."

"She was _mine,"_ Ryan grumbled, anger and hurt flashing in his eyes. "I had her first. I was talking her round-" the rough sound of Harry's derisive laughter interrupted the flow of Ryan's little diatribe for a moment, but then he carried on, righteous indignation building in his tone with each passing second -"and then you showed up and turned her head, and left her with a baby in her belly. Of course she married George, he was the only one stupid enough to believe her when she swore it was his."

An idea had begun to form in Harry's mind as he listened to Ryan's words. It was apparent that Ryan had been nursing an unrequited affection and a bruised ego for decades, angry that he'd lost Ruth, the prize that rightfully should have been his. Perhaps, Harry thought, the best way to force Ryan's tongue to slip was to poke around in that wound.

"You could have had her, after he died," Harry suggested quietly, but Ryan shook his head.

"She was grieving. Wouldn't be right."

 _How about that?_ Harry thought, doing his best to mask his surprise. He hadn't thought that Ryan had it in him, to be so considerate, but the man had provided him with the perfect opening, and he took it gleefully.

"Didn't stop her sleeping with your brother," he pointed out.

Ryan's face turned red and Peters spun around in his chair to stare at Harry incredulously, his expression seeming to ask _why the hell are you wasting time with this?_ Without words Harry tried to reassure him, tried to infuse his own countenance with the confidence he wished he felt. It galled him, speaking about Ruth this way, sharing her secrets, and he knew she would not think kindly of him, should she ever learn what he'd done, but the way Ryan was sputtering seemed to Harry to be an indication that his plan was already working.

"What the hell are you on about?" Ryan demanded.

"You didn't know?" Harry asked mildly. "She's been sleeping with Sean for years."

"That bastard!" Ryan roared, leaping to his feet. "After everything I've done for him? He knew she was mine! I'll kill him myself!"

* * *

"Where did he take you, then?" Maren asked, leaning against the bar, looking impossibly young and somehow vulnerable, as she offered her mother an olive branch. Though Ruth was loath to discuss what she and Harry had been up to that evening with her daughter, she recognized the gesture for what it was and beat back her own feelings of doubt at the invasion privacy. She told Maren the name of the restaurant, and smiled softly when her daughter whistled in surprise.

"I've heard it's nice there," Maren said, a tinge of envy to her voice, as if they were friends, and not mother-and-daughter, swapping stories about boys they fancied. It was rather nice to have an open conversation with her once more, and so, though Ruth's cheeks flushed scarlet, she forced herself to answer.

"It was. I shudder to think how much he spent on dinner."

"He's spoiling you," Maren teased her lightly.

"He always has," Ruth replied softly, unable to keep the wistfulness out of her tone as she recalled the lengths he'd gone to on her birthday, reaching up all unthinking to brush her fingertips against the necklace she wore, the necklace he had given to her so very long ago.

She had said too much, she realized belatedly as doubt darkened her daughter's eyes. "Mum," Maren started to say, but their conversation was broken as a large, warm hand descended on Ruth's shoulder, resting gently there. Ruth turned in her chair, a smile on her lips as she assumed the hand belonged to Harry. That smile vanished promptly, however, as she caught sight of her visitor's face.

"Evening, Ruth," said Sean.


	45. Chapter 45

**10 May 1985**

It had taken over a month, but help had finally arrived from London in the form of three surly recruits on loan from Six who clearly viewed Galway as a step down in life. Harry surveyed their faces in the dim glow of the streetlamp, shielded from view by the same derelict van that had haunted the carpark for the last five months, and he found himself wondering if this was it, if these people could be trusted, if they would provide him the means of capturing his target and securing his triumphant return to Gower Street. Rather alarmingly, Harry had found his memories of his home fading, had found himself growing too accustomed to the pace of life in this place, too comfortable in the skin of the legend he'd borrowed. There was a mutinous piece of his heart that in truth had no desire to return home, a part of his soul that had been buried beneath the soil here, that had begun to put down roots as it was watered by the bountiful affection Ruth bestowed upon him. He had written a new life for himself in this place, and it had become infinitely more attractive than the chaotic, grim reality of his usual existence.

That sense of detachment from one's own self was a threat to every agent, Harry knew. He had endured countless seminars on the importance of not being consumed by a legend, not allowing oneself to be drowned beneath the lies. It was all too easy, a form of Stockholm Syndrome unique to the life of a spy, when the targets of an investigation, be they criminals or terrorists, became suddenly more sympathetic than friends and family back home. Harry had seen it happen before, had seen good agents go native in Iran and in Berlin and a dozen other places, their whole core belief systems utterly overrun by the culture they'd immersed themselves in. Always before Harry had thought himself above such psychological weakness, but he felt himself slipping now. Each night he spent in Ruth's arms he found that Harry Pearce faded that little bit more, and James Harrison grew that little bit stronger. _You're here to do a job,_ he reminded himself firmly. _So bloody do it._

They'd sent him three agents, two men and a woman. Though Harry was initially surprised to see her there, he quickly realized the potential of having a female asset working alongside him; likely the Kellys, backwards and boorish as they were, would not suspect a woman, would not think her capable of cleverness or treachery. Women could be the most treacherous creatures of all, Harry knew; Juliet had taught him that.

The woman's name was Amelia; she had a deceptively soft sort of face, pretty and innately sympathetic, though after having spoken to her for only a few minutes Harry was forced to admit she was made of sterner stuff than that face gave her credit for. Her compatriots, David and Tim, were tall and muscular and rather formidable-looking. They would have fit in well on the docks, Harry thought, but that tactic had been tried one too many times already. It would be folly, he knew, to send any new faces to work in the shipyard; the Kellys would probably murder them in their beds. A different approach was needed, this time around.

There in the darkness Harry handed each of them a stack of papers, speaking softly. "This is a map of the shipyard," he explained. "I had copies made for each of you. Memorize it, then burn it. You can't be caught with those just lying around."

"And where did you get them?" Amelia asked as she studied her map suspiciously.

"Nevermind that," Harry answered shortly. Though he had been forced to admit to Clive that he had received help from a young woman in Galway he was not about to reveal Ruth's identity to these people, not here, not now, standing in the carpark behind her stepfather's pub. In the official reports he'd logged he had referred to her by the codename _Lolita;_ Jerry, the sullen, terse agent he'd placed in the factory upon their arrival in Galway, had suggested the name, and it had become entrenched in Harry's mind somehow, despite his distaste for it. Where Ruth had found the map remained a mystery, and Harry was not prepared to examine it more closely at present.

"This is the plan," he continued, turning first to Amelia, "you're going to work at the station. There's a girl there called Lily. She was close to a former double agent on this case. He died recently, and you'll need to be her new best friend. Get close to her; she goes to parties with Kelly's sons, and at least one of them is intimately involved in what's going on. Ryan."

"Honey trap?" Amelia asked in a bored sort of voice as she tucked the map into the pocket of her jeans. Harry blanched slightly at the words; it was not his intention to sell this girl before him for the sake of the mission, but he knew that needs must. "Do what you think is best," he said carefully. "He likes to talk; you'll get more out of him if you don't go to bed with him right away. Make him work for it."

"I can do that," she said, nodding.

"You two," he carried on, turning now to David and Tim, "will move in next door to the Kellys. Congratulations. You'll be brothers; I believe you've been briefed on your legends?" They nodded in unison, and Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Kelly is storing guns and explosives somewhere. See if there's any indication that he's keeping them at home, and try to track who comes and goes from the house. Try to make contact, but don't be overly friendly. They're a suspicious lot, and they already know someone is on to them. Every new face they see will be interpreted as a threat, and we want them to be comfortable around you. Get settled in, we could be here a while."

"And what exactly do these Kellys have to do with Patrick Magee?" Amelia asked shrewdly.

Therein lay the crux of Harry's problem; he had no idea, really, what connection, if any, there might be. His gut instinct - and the ribs Ryan's brick had broken - told him that the Kellys were a dangerous lot. They clearly had ties to Belfast, and they had no qualms with killing. Whether they were hiding Magee or not, Harry still couldn't say. That wasn't something these three needed to know, however.

"There's an IRA bomb maker living in that house," Harry told her shortly. "They've killed at least one person I know about, and turned a good agent. They're up to something, and they're our best chance of finding Magee."

She nodded, though her face showed her doubt all too plainly.

"Right, go on, then. We meet back here in a week, unless something pressing comes up. Stay safe."

Throughout the briefing Jerry had stood apart, leaned back against the van with an unreadable expression on his face. While Harry shook hands with each of his new recruits Jerry remained where he was, waiting until they were alone before he took a step towards Harry, cleared his throat, and spoke for the first time all evening.

"Do you trust them?" he asked quietly.

Harry sighed and rubbed his temples wearily. He was grateful to Jerry, the only member of his original team still in Galway, but the man's work in the factory had only yielded complaints about management and evidence of a booming black market drugs trade. Through it all Jerry had uttered no word of complaint, and his calm, somewhat brutal approach to the situation had helped to keep Harry centered despite the uncertainty that plagued him.

"It's too early to say," he confessed.

Jerry nodded. "That's the right answer," he said. "I have to tell you, I think we're wasting our time," he continued seriously. "We ought to haul the lot of 'em in, turn the screws and see who squeaks."

"We can't," Harry said at once. "We don't have enough evidence -"

"You've got the photos, don't you? Come on, Harry, do you really think those lads would go to jail just to keep the Kellys safe?"

"They'd go to jail to keep their families safe," Harry replied. "We have to be patient. I know it's frustrating-"

Jerry chuckled darkly. "That's one word for it. I'm off," he added, reaching out to shake Harry's hand. "Going to a party at some lad's flat tonight, he said Sean and Ryan will be there with some girls."

"Girls?" Harry asked, trying and failing to sound casual.

"Aye," Jerry said. Though he was not smiling, there was a certain amused light to his expression all the same. "I imagine your Lolita will be there as well. Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on her."

Harry wanted to protest, to insist that the girl was nothing to him, that Jerry's insinuations were beneath him. He held his tongue, however, knowing that there was nothing he could say that would convince Jerry that his interests in Ruth were purely operational. Better to say nothing, in the end, than offer such confirmation. And besides, it _did_ comfort him, knowing that Jerry would be there. Surely Ruth would be safe, even in the company of the Kellys, so long as this hulking brute of a man was there to protect her.

"Have fun," Harry told him.

* * *

Ruth dearly wished she hadn't let George talk her into this. She hadn't been to a party at his flat since the night he'd cooked her supper, thinking that it might be best to put some distance between them, but he had pointed out - rightfully so - that Ryan now knew they were supposedly seeing one another, and it would look odd if she never came round. For all the talk about George being thick it seemed to Ruth that he was possessed of his own brand of cleverness, his own intrinsic understanding of people, and she found herself wondering about him more and more. Yes, he could be quite passive, and he let Ryan run roughshod all over him, and she'd never seen him pick up a book, but he wasn't stupid.

It was late on a Friday night, and she was perched primly on a chair against the wall in his little flat, surrounded by a sea of people and the thumping of some loud, horrible music making it all but impossible to think. There were two kegs in the kitchen, and some sort of lethal punch Ryan had mixed up that Ruth refused to touch, and all around her the exuberant party guests were engaged in varying states of debauchery. Though Ruth had known these people since she was a child she was not comfortable around them, and she found herself longing to leave. She couldn't just yet, she knew; George was right, and she could ill afford to draw attention to herself.

Her solitude was interrupted by the dramatic arrival of her friend Lily, whom she had not seen her birthday. There was a haggard cast to her friend's face, as the girl came stumbling over to sit beside her, eyes glassy with unshed tears and a paper cup of beer clutched in her trembling hands.

"All right?" Ruth asked her over the din.

"I just keeping thinking about Paul," Lily managed to choke out before bursting into tears. "That bastard," she added through her sobs.

 _Saints preserve us,_ Ruth thought glumly. The last thing she wanted was to sit in this flat listening to Lily's man troubles; she would have much preferred to spend the evening in James's bed in his quiet room, but now that she was here, she knew there was no going back. Taking a deep, resigned sort of breath, she reached out and placed a comforting hand on Lily's back, rubbing it in circles while she leaned closer to speak.

"What did he do?" she asked.

"He left!" Lily burst out, hurt and rage flashing in her eyes. "Almost a month ago now! Didn't tell me he was going, didn't write me so much as a letter, just up and vanished! And - and - and Ryan says…" here she trailed off as she was crying too hard to speak. Ruth left her for a moment, going off in search of something the girl could use to blow her nose, all the while thinking hard. Though they'd never been introduced, Ruth had seen Paul hanging around a time or two; he was a handsome enough young man, she supposed, though the fact that she had seen him that night David closed the pub seemed to be a point against him in her book.

And then it all clicked into place, somehow; Ruth had seen him that night in the pub, and the next day she'd given James his name. And all of it had happened about a month before.

When she returned to Lily's side, Ruth was the one with shaking hands. Lily took the proffered tissue gratefully, making some show of blowing her nose as she struggled to bring her breathing under control while Ruth tried not to panic.

The moment Ruth had told James Paul's name, he'd cursed and jumped up from his chair. The name had meant something to him, she realized with horror, and she'd given it to him. What had he done, when he left her side? He'd come back to her slightly manic and distracted, and never once had he given her any explanation for his absence. Though she fervently hoped that Paul was still alive and well, a dark, bitter voice whispered to her, told her that she knew better. If Paul was gone, there was no doubt James had something to do with it, and every chance that the lad had met with some sort of violent end. Because of _her._

"I just can't believe he'd leave me like that," Lily wailed, but Ruth was saved any further distress by the timely arrival of George. At the sight of him hovering attentively by Ruth's elbow Lily began to cry even harder, and promptly fled. George took her vacant chair with some show of relief.

"All right, Ruthie?" he asked her.

"Did you know Paul well?" She hadn't intended to be so blunt about it, but her mind was whirling, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them.

"Ruthie-"

"What happened to him, George?" she demanded. "Tell me."

He reached out and caught her hand in his own, gazing at her with pleading eyes. "Ryan says he ran off with some girl-"

"George-"

"But he didn't," George whispered. "I'm so sorry, Ruthie. He killed him, your Englishman did. Or at least, Ryan thinks he did. Ryan didn't see who fired the shot, but he figured it had to be the Englishman. Paul was working for him, you see, but really he was on the Kelly's side all along."

"Oh my god," Ruth breathed, clutching George's hand fiercely as her world tipped and spun all around her. Lies upon lies, murder and double agents and shots fired in the darkness; it was more than she could bear. _How did it come to this?_ She asked herself. How could she love a man like that, a killer, a spy? _I can't carry on this way any more._

"It'll be all right, Ruthie," George said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and drawing her close to him. For once Ruth did not try to avoid him; she curled into him, buried her face against his chest, and began to weep. Around them the party continued, all of the guests heedless of the turmoil that gripped the dark-haired girl in the corner. All of the guests save one, a tall, burly lad leaning against the far wall who kept his eyes trained on her all the while.


	46. Chapter 46

**19 July 2006**

Harry watched Ryan Kelly closely, the wildness of his eyes, the heaving of his chest, the grim set of his mouth. It was a gamble, revealing Ruth's longstanding liaison with Sean Kelly, and a betrayal of her trust, Harry knew, but there were some things in life more important than preserving her regard for him; Harry's first duty was to his country, not to his own battered heart. And it appeared that his gamble had paid off; Ryan's words, _after everything I've done for him,_ rang in Harry's head like a bell. Though Harry had not previously had any cause to be suspicious of Sean, he was beginning to wonder if he'd overlooked the eldest Kelly in error. Harry had always suspected there was someone else pulling the strings, someone more clever than Ryan, someone with a level head and a talent for playing the long game, but before this moment, he had believed that person to be some shadowy figure back in Belfast. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps he should have been looking closer to home, if the respectable, mild-mannered Sean was in fact the brains behind the entire operation. It made a certain amount of sense, but if it were true, that meant that Ruth might even now be in terrible danger. Sean had chosen her for a reason; whether that reason was her beauty, her gentleness, her strength of spirit, or something more nefarious Harry could not say, and that thought troubled him deeply.

"What did you do for him, Ryan?" Peters asked softly. Though Harry bristled for a moment at the intrusion, he had to admit it was best that question from Peters; Harry had no authority to lead the interview, and whatever evidence they gathered from Ryan needed to be above approach. It was the right question to ask, delivered in the right moment, and Ryan didn't seem to care from whence it came, sinking into his chair with a vaguely shell-shocked expression on his face.

"If I tell you," he began in a trembling voice, "will you keep me safe? You've got to promise no harm will come to me or my boy."

The last thing Harry expected was to find himself feeling sorry for Ryan Kelly, but he could not fight the surge of pity that welled up in him now. For all his hulking bravado Ryan had always been weak, always been so uncertain of his own position; Ruth had rejected him, his wife had left him, and now he was beginning to realize that his own brother had betrayed him. In that moment, Harry saw the truth of Ryan Kelly. He was not a swaggering tyrant; he was just a man, balding and grappling with bitter disappointment. It was a sobering moment for Harry, watching the crumbling of Ryan Kelly's pugnacious spirit.

"That depends on what you have to say," Peters said carefully. Harry knew the man was in no position to go making promises as regarded the care of Ryan's family; that decision would be left to other men, men in suits sitting in comfortable offices sipping fine scotch. It would not do to say such a thing now, though. They needed Ryan on side. "If you know who's behind all this, the guns and the money and what happened to my colleagues tonight, if you can help us put a stop to all of this, we can protect your family. But you have to be honest with us, Ryan."

"I can do that," Ryan said. "I can tell you everything."

* * *

"Sean!" Ruth exclaimed, trying to calm the frantic stuttering of her heart in her chest. Only a moment before she had been elated, to think that Harry had already returned to her side, but now the sight of Sean before her had erased that joy, leaving her full of doubt instead. He loomed over her, the dim lights of the pub casting his shadow large as a titan on the wall behind her, highlighting the fierce lines of his face beneath his well-kept beard. Though Ruth had no desire to sit alone with this man Maren shook her head disapprovingly and departed, leaving her mother to her own devices.

"All right, Ruth?" he asked, taking a seat beside her, smiling at her in a distinctly unpleasant sort of way. There was something different about him tonight; Ruth couldn't quite put her finger on it, but his presence by her side left her feeling ill at ease. Though his manner was casual, his movements measured and not in themselves unusual, he somehow succeeded in trapping her in place, his left knee pressed against her thigh, restricting the movement of her legs while he leaned his arm on the bar, caging her with the sheer animal physicality of his presence.

"F-fine," she stammered, hoping her agitation didn't show on her face. "You?"

"There was some trouble, down by the docks," he said. "Ryan's got himself in a right state. Is your Englishman about?"

Not for the first time, Ruth wondered why they all insisted on referring to Harry as _her_ Englishman, as if she were somehow responsible for him, as if she had brought all this calamity down upon them. Though she supposed she bore some of the blame for his most recent appearance in Galway, having asked for him specifically, she had nothing to do with his original deployment to their city, and she had done her best to steer clear of his affairs; even still, it seemed that she and Harry had been painted with the same brush, chained together by the ill-meaning gossip of every wagging tongue in Galway. There was a part of her that didn't mind so much, to think of Harry belonging to her as she belonged to him, but in this moment that romantic voice was shouted down by the clamoring of her own spirit of self-preservation.

"No," she answered truthfully. "He's gone out. I don't know when he'll be back, I'm not his keeper."

"But you are something to him, aren't you, Ruthie?" Sean asked quietly. It was the first time he'd ever called her that, as far as Ruth could recall, and the sound of that diminutive falling from his lips inspired a fresh wave of panic in her, though she could not say exactly why. Something was wrong, she knew, and she had no interest in finding out what, had no desire to bring the chaos of the outside world into her pub, into her home.

"Leave it alone, Sean," she answered, her voice hardly more than a whisper. "He's just passing through-"

"Like hell he is," Sean fired back. He reached out, and wrapped one strong, calloused hand around her bicep, rising to his feet and dragging her along in his wake. "We need to talk, somewhere private."

"No," she gasped, trying to pull herself from his grip. It was a futile attempt; he was taller and broader and stronger than she, and he kept his hold on her, even as he wrapped his free arm around her, pulling her close to his body, embracing her as a lover. He directed her gaze down to his waist, and reached down, pulling back his jacket to reveal the pistol tucked into his waistband.

"Take me upstairs, Ruthie," he growled. "You're bound to have an empty room. Come along quietly, and I won't cause a scene."

* * *

"Da always said Sean was the smart one," Ryan began haltingly. "It was Sean he wanted to take over. But Sean said he could get more done, could protect the family better, if no one knew what he was doing. I just wanted to help. You remember that winter, Englishman?" this last he delivered directly to Harry. "Remember my uncle?"

"I do," Harry answered slowly. He had not moved from his post by the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, trying to radiate an air of calm while inside his thoughts were churning.

"He wasn't just visiting. He came to teach Sean about bombs. It was Sean who set the charges on the container, the one that killed your friend. Only no one knew about it. Da always said that perception is more important than truth, that respect provides more protection than fear. Sean kept his nose clean, and no one suspected a thing."

"What about the men who worked for you? They knew what was happening. Someone had to give the orders. Your father and David Shaw were there, the night the container blew." Across all the intervening years, Harry had never forgotten a single detail of that terrible night, could still see Connor Kelly's face in the glow from the torches, could still hear the shockwave of the bomb detaining behind him, throwing him to the ground.

Ryan shook his head, in a hurry to explain. "It didn't matter if the rest of us went down, as long as one of us kept his nose clean. So long as no one knew about Sean, about his connections, even if we were caught, he could carry on. It was Sean who worked with the boys back in Belfast, Sean who arranged the shipments, but we all agreed that if you ever caught up to us we'd keep our mouths shut. And it worked, didn't it? My father died in jail, and we kept right at it. Actually, I ought to thank you for that," he added bitterly. "Da was a right prick, used to knock me about. And Sean runs a clean business. People like him, and until you turned up again, everything was smooth sailing."

"You have to tell us exactly what he's doing, Ryan," Peters broke in here. "How does it work? The guns?"

"Right," Ryan said, shifting in his chair. "Sean works with some Republican lads in Belfast. They have connections in the States. Belfast sends us money, and the boys in the States send in shipments of weapons. We take the money, we send on the guns, and the family keeps the profits. Sean keeps the shipments on a separate ledger in a safe in his house, and he pays the lads here to keep their mouths shut."

"These lads in Belfast - do you have any names?" Peters asked intently, but Ryan just shook his head.

"It's all in Sean's papers," he said. "I never talked to anyone. I just tell our boys where to be and make sure none of the merchandise goes missing."

 _We have to get in that house,_ Harry realized grimly. _Tonight._

Apparently Peters had the same thought.

"Where is Sean now?" he asked.

* * *

 _This is bad, this is bad, this is very bad,_ Ruth thought frantically as she unlocked the door and led Sean into the room next to Harry's. The moment they stepped over the threshold he took the key from her and pocketed it, locking the door behind him. The room was small, a bed, a small table, and two rickety chairs jockeying for space. Ruth elected to sit in one of the chairs, not trusting her shaking legs to hold her upright, and desperately wanting to avoid drawing Sean's attention to the bed. For his part Sean appeared too agitated to sit, choosing instead to pace on the narrow sliver of carpet between the bed and the far wall, the light from the street below filtering in through the blinds on the window and throwing wild shadows across his face.

"Why do you have a gun, Sean?" she asked him timidly. "You know I don't want any trouble-"

"It's not for you, Ruthie," he answered. "Things are getting bad out there. I think Ryan may have shot someone."

"What?" she demanded incredulously, feeling slightly dizzy as she tracked Sean's progress across the carpet.

"Oh, come on," Sean said exasperatedly. "You know what he's capable of. What he did to George."

"What are you saying, Sean?" Ruth was trembling from head to toe now. Could it be, she wondered, that Sean was just scared, frightened of what his brother had done, hoping to speak to Harry so that he could reveal his brother's crimes and finally put an end to the madness? She dearly hoped so; Ruth could not bear the thought of having spent the last two years in the bed of a violent man. Sean had never been anything but kind to her, and though his behavior worried her desperately, she longed to believe the best of him.

"Ryan ordered George's death," Sean told her, finally ceasing his endless wandering and staring at her with pleading eyes. "It wasn't an accident. George knew what Ryan was doing, so Ryan got rid of him."

"Oh, God," Ruth breathed.

* * *

"I have to tell you," Ryan said as Harry and Peters prepared to depart. "It was Sean who said we had to get rid of George. George wasn't one of ours, you see. He said we could do what we liked, and he'd never tell a soul, but he wanted no part of it. We were friends, me and George, had been for a long time, but then one day one of the boxes broke in the loading bay, and George saw the guns. I tried to tell Sean we could trust him, but he wouldn't listen. I said I wouldn't have anything to do with it, so Sean took it on himself. He sent George on some fool errand down in the container farm, and he told the bloke working the crane to take a break. Next thing I knew George was dead and Sean was nowhere to be found."

Though Harry felt somewhat vindicated, to finally learn the truth of what had befallen Ruth's husband, he worried that this would not be enough. It was the word of one brother against another, and they would need more proof. Surely someone else had seen something, he mused as he watched Ryan carefully; the dockyards were usually crawling with workers. Though several years had elapsed, he imagined that day was ingrained in their minds.

"He's really been sleeping with her for years?" Ryan asked despondently.

"I don't think there's any great affection between them," Harry said. Immediately he found himself wondering why he'd felt the need to offer such comfort to Ryan Kelly, thin as it might be. _I really must be getting soft._ "She said his wife had died, they had that in common."

Ryan's face went white as a sheet at those words. "Shit," he said softly.

"What?" Harry demanded, taking an involuntary step forward.

"Rosie - that's Sean wife - she died just before George. Sean said he found her in bed with some bloke, said he just saw red, he didn't mean to do it, he swore it was an accident-" Ryan's words came tumbling out of his mouth, a torrent of horror, his face grief-stricken.

"What are you saying, Ryan?" Harry interrupted him tersely. This was not the time for babbling; Harry needed answers.

"He killed her. Sean killed Rosie, and then I helped him make it look like an accident. Do you think he planned it like that?" Ryan asked, raising his pale face to stare at Harry in shock. "Get rid of Rosie, get rid of George, then have Ruth all to himself?"

* * *

"Will he be back soon?" Sean asked, coming to sit across from her, struggling to fold his long legs under the table.

"I don't know," Ruth answered. Her head was spinning; she had always suspected that Ryan had played a role in George's death, but faced with this evidence of his crime she felt her heart breaking anew. George's face, kind and gentle, swam before her, and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Seeing her distress, Sean reached out and placed his hand over hers gently.

"It'll be all right," he reassured her. "The Englishman will come back, we'll tell him what happened, and he'll make sure Ryan answers for what he's done. I'll keep you safe, Ruth. I promise."

"Thank you," she breathed.

* * *

"I'll put a call into the Gardaí and we'll have them pick Sean up and get a warrant to search his house," Peters told Harry as they gathered for a post-interview debrief in the makeshift tech suite with Tommy. "They can investigate the murders, and if we find the papers Ryan mentioned we'll get him on the guns, too."

"What about Ryan?" Harry asked. Though he knew that Ryan had made his own bed, had been a willing participant to all this calamity and atrocity, he still could not shake his pity for the man. Beaten by his father, bested by his brother at every turn, not blessed with any great cleverness or strength of character, Ryan had only tried to find his place in a family of thugs. And Maren was sweet on Ryan's son; Harry did not wish any harm to the lad, did not wish him to suffer for the crimes of his father and uncle. It was a tangled mess, twenty years in the making, and Harry was ready to see the end of it.

"If he agrees to testify against his brother, if some of these other lads will as well, I think we can make arrangements to keep him and the boy safe."

Harry nodded. "I'll leave you to it," he said, knowing he could not be involved in the search. His presence in the interview was already skirting the line of decorum, given that he had no jurisdiction in Ireland; he could not be anywhere near Sean Kelly's home if evidence of his treachery was found there, lest the manner of its retrieval be called into question.

Peters reached out, and shook his hand firmly. "Thank you for your help, Sir Harry," he said earnestly. Harry just nodded, and wished him luck before departing. His mind was full of Ruth, full of worries. He needed to get to her before word of the night's events spread, needed to warn her, to make sure that Sean Kelly did not come anywhere near her. With that in mind he clambered back into his hire car, and sped off for the pub.


	47. Chapter 47

**10 May 1985**

Jerry watched her talking earnestly to the ginger lad, wondering what it was Harry saw in his Lolita, that little wisp of a thing in a faded dress. She was slight, not particularly tall or particularly noteworthy, as far as Jerry was concerned; to be sure, she had a sweet little face, a gentle voice, and eyes so very blue and so very bright, startlingly intense in such an otherwise diminutive presence, but there was nothing about her that bespoke the sort of passion that made a man risk his livelihood, his very life, to claim. This sort of thing happened, Jerry knew; embedded too long, far away from home, agents almost always found themselves a local girl, claimed that she was providing useful intelligence to justify their need for a quick tumble and the touch of another human being, however emotionless the transaction might be. Somehow he couldn't imagine Harry giving into his own baser instincts that way; he was a hard bastard, was Harry Pearce, ruthless and determined, grim and often short-tempered. Why then was he wasting his time with a girl like that, naive and inexperienced, when he had a whole city full of women at his disposal?

Jerry wasn't entirely sure, but he had told Harry he'd keep an eye on her, and that was what he meant to do tonight. There had been whispers about her, people looking at her, then looking at Ryan, then raising their eyebrows knowingly, but Jerry figured it was none of his business who she'd shagged. In fact, he doubted he would have paid her any mind at all, were it not for something Sean had said one night several months prior, when he was too pissed to guard his tongue.

The elder Kelly counted Jerry among his friends; they'd been introduced by mutual acquaintances, rough lads who worked with Jerry at the factory, and Sean had taken a liking to him almost at once, telling him how refreshing it was to find someone who spoke his mind so freely. That was testament to Jerry's skills as an actor and an agent; in truth he found every word that came of Sean's mouth distasteful, but he knew his part, and played it well, earning the young man's trust. And perhaps it was because of that trust that Sean had felt comfortable enough to lean back in his chair one night, sitting in the pub and watching Ruth's progress across the bar with a lazy sort of interest, and say, " _you see that girl, Jerry?"_

" _Aye,"_ Jerry had answered.

" _Ryan's had her,_ " Sean said.

" _That right?"_ Jerry asked disinterestedly.

" _Aye. Stupid shite couldn't keep his mouth shut about her. I never really noticed her before, to be honest, but she's not bad to look at, is she?"_

" _If you like 'em young and scared."_ Jerry's heart had begun to pound; he knew that Harry had been sniffing around after her, and he could only imagine what sort of calamity might ensue, should Sean and Harry butt heads over the same girl. That was last bloody thing he needed, to watch the entire operation go tits up over a woman before they ever found their man. Jerry was damned if he was going back to London in disgrace because Harry Pearce couldn't keep it in his pants. He chose his tone carefully, trying to convey as much disdain as he could without actually slandering the girl, wondering if it would be that easy to dissuade Sean Kelly, once he'd made up his mind.

For his part Sean had laughed. " _I like 'em a bit more experienced,"_ he agreed. " _My Rosie's enough for me. Still, though, Ryan would lose his mind, wouldn't he, if I had her?"_

" _Why do you care what Ryan thinks?"_

" _It'd just be for a laugh,"_ Sean had answered defensively. Somehow, Jerry didn't quite believe him; there was a hunger in his gaze, growing the longer he watched her at work behind the bar. It was an expression Jerry knew all too well, having worn it a time or two himself.

" _Besides, she's smart, Ryan says, top of their class. She's always reading books. And she lives with David. We need her onside, need her to keep quiet."_ Jerry had sat up a little straighter at that, wondering if perhaps this was it, his chance to trap the Kellys for good and all, and put an end to the operation. It was not meant to be, however; Sean offered no further explanation, as to what it was he wanted Ruth to keep quiet about. " _Might be I could keep her sweet. Or put the fear of God into her. Either way, I mean to keep an eye on her."_

Months had passed since then, but Jerry had never forgotten that conversation, or his fear for Ruth's safety. If Sean Kelly had set his sights on her that would place her in terrible danger, and somehow he doubted her ability to protect herself. Still, though, he had not shared any of this with Harry. After all, Harry was the one in charge; he couldn't go losing his head over this girl. It would be up to Jerry to keep her safe, while Harry kept his mind on more important matters.

Across the room Ruth appeared to be in some distress; she rose from her chair, and George hurried to follow her, stopping her progress with his hand on her arm. Jerry tensed, wondering where the lad fit into all of this; rumor had it she was running around with him, too. _Is her cunt made of gold?_ Jerry wondered bitterly as he watched the lover's spat unfolding across the room while the party raged on, heedless of the turmoil in the corner. Finally George gave in, and kissed her cheek softly, tucking his hands in his pockets and watching in glum resignation as Ruth took her leave from the party, slipping through the door. Jerry would have thought her departure had gone entirely unnoticed, had his gaze not fallen for a moment on Ryan Kelly.

Ryan watched Ruth leave, a curious expression on his face, his eyes darting from George to the door and back again. Then he downed his drink in one gulp, took a deep breath, and followed Ruth out into the night.

 _Shit,_ Jerry thought. It was a recipe for disaster, he knew, a girl on her own, walking all the way back to the pub in the dark of the night with Ryan Kelly hot on her heels. There was nothing for it; he would have to follow them, as well. His shoulders slumped in resignation, and he took his leave, the sound of the music fading with every step he took into the darkness.

* * *

Harry was only just returning to Shaw's after making a long (and rather pricey) phone call to Clive from the payphone he had come to think of as his own. It was terribly late, and he wanted nothing more than to seek his bed, to shuffle under the duvet and sleep, not to wake again until the world had righted itself. He was just so bloody _tired,_ tired of the endless calls to Clive, confessing his abysmal progress in pursuit of Magee, tired of dancing around the Kellys, tired of the way his team looked to him for leadership despite his own uncertainty, tired of the guilt he felt, when he thought of his wife, tired of the burning desire he felt for Ruth every moment she was not by his side. All around him was chaos and innuendo and failure, and he could not see his way through any of it. Yes, he would like to sleep, not just for the night, but for a day, a week, a month, as long as it took to ease the weariness of his soul, the torment of his heart.

Rest was apparently not in the offing, this evening; even as he approached the pub from the south he saw a figure hurrying towards it from the north. He tensed as he continued his approach, not abating his pace lest his sudden halt draw suspicion, but his hackles raised nonetheless as he peered through the darkness. The figure was slight, huddled somewhat as if to ward off a chill, though the night was balmy, the breeze a blessed whisper rather than the insidious whistling he had come to hate during winter. As he drew closer his fears proved unfounded; the figure passed beneath a streetlamp, and his heart leapt as he recognized his lover.

He waited until they were a bit closer before he called out to her, not shouting her name but speaking it loud enough to draw her attention.

Ruth stopped where she was, just on the edge of the carpark, and did not return his greeting; as his feet carried him forward, closing the distance between them, he took note of her posture, the slump of her shoulders, the way she'd wrapped her arms around her middle, her eyes downcast. Her posture radiated distress and doubt, and some of that translated itself to Harry. He did not stop until he was close enough to touch her, reaching out to cup her chin in his hand and raise her gaze to his face.

"All right, Ruth?" he asked her softly, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips, the blood thrumming in her veins, feeling himself falling once more into the endless swirling depths of her ocean-dark eyes, shining up at him pleadingly in the glow of the streetlamps. All around them the city slept, and though it might have been folly, to touch her so intimately on the side of a public street, Harry trusted to the cover of darkness and the lateness of the hour to shield their assignation from prying eyes. There was no one else about; as far as Harry was concerned, in that moment there was no one else in the world, save for the pair of them.

"No," she breathed, her lower lip trembling, just begging him to reach out and soothe her fraying nerves with his own kiss.

"What's happened?" he asked, trying to keep his voice warm and gentle, trying to ignore the surge of fear he felt when she spoke that single word.

"What happened to Paul?" she asked him. "The lad from the station. Where's he gone?"

Harry's heart sank heavy as lead in his chest, and he heaved a great sigh, his hand dropping away from her face, his very soul seeming to mourn for the loss of her warmth. _Paul._ It all came back to that in the end, he supposed, to the violent nature of his very existence, to the duty that had brought him to Galway in the first place, to the sense of purpose and vigilant dedication to justice that had so estranged him from his wife, that had soaked his hands in blood, never again to be clean. How could she ever come to love him, this girl so kind and full of life, when he was no more than a shadow, dispensing death and judgment and shrinking back from the light she now shone upon him? He felt himself exposed beneath the shining light of her gaze, felt himself tearing in two, a cynical voice urging him to lie to her, to keep her sweet, while his better angels counseled honesty in all things, whatever the cost.

"He was working with them," Harry answered gruffly, steeling himself against the horror he saw washing across her face. "The Kellys. He set Sullivan up, knew we'd be there that night. It's Paul's fault that lad is dead."

"James," she choked out his name in a voice filled with dread, her hand rising up to cover her mouth, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, sparkling like diamonds where the light from the streetlamps caught them. "You didn't."

"I did what I had to," he told her. "He knew too much, and he betrayed us. He killed an innocent man, Ruth, and he would have killed me, too. I just got there first."

It was in his mind to worry that this might be the moment when she left him for good and all, when the awful truth of him was at last laid bare and she declared him a monster, not fit to share her bed. So convinced was he that she was about to crush his heart beneath the heel of her boot that he found he could not look at her, hiding his face and his shame from her as he ducked his head and stared down at the pavement beneath his feet. He was a murderer, and an adulterer, a liar, a spy, and he knew in his hear that he could not ask her to bind herself to him, to spend another moment in the company of such a man, when the world lay open before her feet and the sure moral compass that guided her directed her safely from his path. He closed his eyes as the moment stretched between them following his pronouncement, his sense of dread growing with each passing heartbeat, wishing that she would speak and end his torment, and yet wishing that she would hold her tongue and allow him to linger in her presence just a bit longer in equal measure.

The gentle touch of her hand upon his face startled him; his eyes flew open, and he discovered that she had drawn closer, so close that their chests brushed with each unsteady breath they took, her face just _there_ , looking up at him even as he stared down at her in awestruck wonder and desperate hope.

"Are you absolutely certain, that he was responsible for what happened to Sullivan?" she asked him earnestly.

"I am," he answered. He did not tell her of the evidence he'd found in Paul's flat, the journals and the money and the weapons; it would take too long, to explain it all, and anyway, the fierceness of her visage seemed to imply that she required no further reassurance beyond his own fervent answer.

"And you're certain he would have killed you?" she added, her voice trembling though she held firm beneath him.

"I heard it from his own mouth."

It took a moment, for her to process his words, but finally, she nodded. "Good, then," she said.

What a gift it was, he thought as he gazed down at her, to have found such a creature in this place, to have found a woman so lovely, so brilliant, so utterly understanding of him; she might not approve of what he had done, but she had heard the reasons for it, had measured them in her mind against her own deeply ingrained values, and had come to the conclusion that he was not to be damned for this act of self-preservation. Jane would never offer him such clemency, he knew, which was one of many reasons he had never discussed his work with his wife. He had a burning desire to tell Ruth everything, now, to lay bare before her every step of his life that had led him to this moment, wanting only her blessing, wanting her to relieve him of the burden of the sins that he carried, to send him on his way in peace.

Standing so close, breathing the same air, left him no other option; he wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to his chest, kissing her with everything he had, pouring out his grief and his love in a boundless flood. She stood firm beneath the deluge of him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her body bowing against his own, their pieces slotting neatly into place as they embraced in the darkness, the benediction of her kiss sweeter, more sustaining than any homily he'd ever heard. In that moment, she was with him, not just in the physical world but in his heart, in his soul, in every piece of him, weaving herself into the tapestry that told the story of his life, embedding her gentle voice in the recesses of his consciousness, never to leave him, no matter how far he might drift from her side in the future. She was everything to him, and when he held her, he felt only joy, for perhaps the first time in his entire life.

* * *

Jerry fought the urge to call out, to stomp his foot in frustration, to box Ryan Kelly round the ears and distract him from the tableau unfolding across the street. He could not say why Harry Pearce had chosen that moment to lose his mind entirely and kiss that girl in the middle of a public street, but he knew it could not bode well for them. Ryan Kelly had witnessed the entire sorry scene, the hushed, furious conversation, the intimate embrace, and no doubt he would be rushing off immediately to share this information with everyone he knew. That had to be stopped at all costs, Jerry knew; grimly he began to approach Kelly's hiding place, intent on pummeling the lad into unconsciousness in the hopes that he might forget what he had seen - or perhaps never speak again - but before he could Ryan slumped off into the shadows, disappearing into the night. Jerry cursed himself for his hesitation; the route Ryan had chosen was too well lit to lend itself to a late-night beating, and Jerry could not risk being caught out, not even to save Harry Pearce's skin. A storm was coming, of that he had no doubt, and Harry had brought it down upon them.

 _God have mercy on us,_ he thought.


	48. Chapter 48

**19 July 2006**

By the time Harry arrived back at Shaw's pub, the customers had all departed, and Maren was alone in the dining room, industriously sweeping the floor and singing softly to herself in the shattering stillness. Harry paused in the doorway for a moment, his heart constricted at the sight of her, this girl who might be his own daughter, this girl so reminiscent of the woman he loved, performing a task he had watched Ruth undertake a thousand times before, the words of _A Stór Mo Chroí_ echoing back from the faded walls and empty booths. How many times had he sat, spellbound and enraptured, listening to Ruth sing that very song? Not for the first time he found himself wondering about Maren, this girl Ruth had raised, wondering what sort of person she was, thinking how proud Ruth must be, thinking of his own daughter and how many times he had failed her. He resolved in that moment to ring Catherine at the first possible opportunity, perhaps the very next day, and start the business of mending his relationship with her. Ruth had chided him, for the divide he had allowed to spring up between himself and his children, and as he watched Maren, this girl who had been blessed with devoted, affectionate parents, he realized how very right Ruth had been, and how very remiss he had been in his treatment of his children. It was not too late, he knew that now. Ruth had shown him the way.

"Maren?" he called softly, not wanting to startle her. His attempt failed rather spectacularly, as she jumped and dropped her broom to the floor with a clatter. She spun on her heel, dark hair flying out around her shoulders, her eyes flashing as if she were preparing herself to launch into some great diatribe. The words died on her lips, however, as she recognized her visitor, her momentary indignation faltering as a somewhat guilty expression overtook her features.

"Mr. Harrison," she said slowly. "I'm sorry, but the pub is closed."

"I know, I'm not here for a drink," he assured her. "I was just wondering if you knew where your mother has got off to."

Harry had not yet ventured up to his room, but he couldn't imagine that Ruth would have stayed there without him. Ruth was never one to be idle, and left to her own devices in his room he knew her hands would have itched for some activity, some piece of floor to clean, some needy sod to tend to; at the very least, she would have trundled off home, but he knew she would not have been able to resist temptation. Wherever she'd gone, she would look in at the pub first, and so his feet had led him there as well, eager to search her out.

"Oh," Maren said, her shoulders slumping for a moment. She retrieved her broom and clasped it to her chest, both of her hands wrapped tightly around the handle. There was a tension in her, an uncertainty that set the alarm bells to ringing in Harry's mind. He supposed there might be a thousand different explanations for Maren's sudden reticence, her mistrust for him, her distaste when it came to confronting her mother's personal life, but there was something else, something vaguely guilty flashing in the depths of her luminous eyes that gave him pause.

"What is it?" he prompted her gently, taking one step and then another, slowly closing the distance between them.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, ducking her head and refusing to meet his gaze.

"Maren." He spoke her name sharply, fear gnawing at his gut. He was close enough to reach out and touch her now, but he did not, concerned as he was by her behavior, uncertain as he was as to his standing with her.

"She went upstairs," Maren confessed. "About an hour ago. With...with Sean Kelly. I'm sorry," she added.

Harry's hands began to shake. That explained it then, her hesitance to speak; no doubt she thought she had walked into some sort of lover's spat, had just crushed all his hopes where her mother was concerned. She had no way of knowing that she had crushed him in an altogether different sort of way, that it was fear, and not betrayal, that so consumed him now.

"You're certain it was him?" Harry demanded.

Maren retreated at the harsh sound of his voice, her eyes flitting to the corners of the room desperately as though searching for some sort of aid. "Mr. Harrison-"

He reached out and caught her arm, the suddenness of the contact causing her to gasp in alarm. There was no time for him to comfort her, however; now was the time for action.

"Call the Gardai," he barked. "Now. Tell them to send a team over here right away. Tell them Sean Kelly is upstairs, and Harry Pearce is asking for reinforcements. Can you do that?"

Though her lower lip trembled and fear shone bright as a beacon in her eyes, Maren nodded. "Do it now," he added, before he spun on his heel and all but sprinted from the room. He would have made the call himself, but there was no bloody _time;_ Ruth was upstairs, alone with the monster who had murdered her husband. There was no telling what Harry might find once he reached her, but his imagination was working overtime, conjuring one hideous, unspeakable calamity after another. It simply wasn't fair, wasn't right, wasn't just that Ruth should be taken from him now, when he'd only just discovered her, when he'd only just begun to consider the possibility of a future with her. There was no doubt in his mind that whatever harm might come to her was his doing, brought about by his interference, his damnable duty. He had rained damnation upon Ruth from the moment they met, dragged her from her simple life into his world of swirling shadows, and he could not bear the thought of what his love for her might have cost her.

* * *

For the last hour Ruth had sat upon the chair in the room next door to Harry's, her hands folded in her lap, her body tense and still as Sean paced, providing her with an endless litany of Ryan's misdeeds. She was perturbed, having never seen quite so much emotion from this man; Sean's hands were shaking, his eyes wild, as he told her of all the people Ryan had hurt, told her about the guns and the money and the explosives. According to Sean, Ryan had been running things from the start, singled out by their father as the heir apparent on account of his ruthlessness, his greed. Ruth could imagine it, given Ryan's swaggering bravado, his innate cruelty; someone had to have been behind all the mayhem she'd witnessed, the carnage that the Kellys had wrought, and Ryan seemed as likely a villain as any. Sean had never been anything but courteous to her, and she had never heard an ill word spoken of him. Even now, when he was pacing the floor with a gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers, she couldn't help but remind herself that she had shared this man's bed for years now, and no harm had ever befallen her. Ryan had shown his true colors the moment he first had her, had immediately trampled over her and her privacy in his quest to prove his own virility, whereas Sean had always been discrete, and sympathetic to her needs, and always made sure she came at least twice. Surely, she told herself, if Sean had wished her ill he would have done something before now. _He only has the gun because he's scared of Ryan,_ she told herself firmly. _Harry will know what to do, Harry will sort this out. He promised Ryan would see justice, for what he did to George. We'll get through this._

"Why don't I ring him?" she suggested quietly. Though she truly believed Sean had not intention of hurting her the gun made her nervous, and so she kept her tone gentle and soft, not wanting to startle or upset him. It was unnerving, seeing him so far removed from his usual articulate composure; Ruth had already decided that once this was done she would never again spend a night in Sean's arms, even if Harry left her for good and all. Having seen this tense, impulsive, uncontrollable side of Sean, she was certain she could not bear to be so close to him once more. The bloom was most definitely off that particular rose.

"No," Sean told her sharply. "He might be with Ryan right now. It's too risky. We just need to wait."

Ruth sighed in frustration, but when she opened her mouth to protest Sean stormed across the room and bent low beside her, bringing his face very close to hers. "We don't know where he is. We don't know if Ryan's with him. We can't risk him being followed. We can't draw suspicion. Just be patient, Ruth."

Ruth nodded in glum agreement, twisting her hands together nervously in her lap as Sean withdrew from her side and continued his pacing. A small, insistent voice in the back of her mind counseled prudence, suggested that perhaps Sean was just frightened enough to be dangerous. The situation was untenable, but so long as Sean had that gun, there was very little else she could do. They were trapped together in a small space, with no way for her to conceal her movements from him. She would have to wait, and trust that Harry was even now on his way back to her, her own battered knight in shining armor come to save the day.

 _Please, Harry,_ she thought fervently. _Hurry._

* * *

Harry made two brief stops on his wild flight to Ruth's side; the first was the desk in the foyer, where he stopped just long enough to take note of which keys were missing. He had already established which guests were staying in which rooms, and one quick glance told him all he needed to know. The key for the empty room next to his own had vanished. Assured that he knew where she was, Harry bounded up the stairs and then slipped down the hall on silent feet, veering into his own room just long enough to retrieve the handgun he kept secreted away in his luggage. Armed and infuriated at Sean's having brought Ruth into this mess he returned once more to the corridor, and came to a stop just outside the door to room 216. For a moment that seemed to last an eternity, but was in truth no longer than a heartbeat, he hesitated, his ear pressed to the door, trying to determine what exactly was happening, what sort of disaster he was walking into.

He could hear nothing, no voices, no smacking of fists or sharp explosion of gunshots, no sound at all to indicate what sort of horror awaited within.

 _Maybe he hasn't hurt her,_ Harry tried to reassure himself, preparing himself to knock upon the door. _He slept with her, maybe he cares for her. Maybe he has no intention of causing her any harm._

Harry took a deep breath and knocked sharply on the door once, calling out, "Ruth? Are you in there?" before prudently stepping to the side, just in case the sound of his voice was met with a barrage of bullets. It was folly, he knew, to enter that room without backup, without a bulletproof vest, with no more than his instinct and one small handgun to protect himself, but he could not bear the thought of Ruth languishing in there alone.

The door swung open almost at once; the sight of Sean Kelly's face, frightened and wary, leaning around the doorframe inspired such a wave of rage from the depths of Harry's soul as to very nearly shatter his self-control. As it was he tempered his violent impulses with the recollection of Ruth's face, and the thought that she might even now be on the other side of that door. Much as he longed to end Sean Kelly here and now, he knew that he could not; he had to first ascertain Ruth's condition, and then, for her sake, Sean had to be brought in alive, made to answer for his crimes and deliver the names of his compatriots in Belfast, to put an end to the mission that had brought Harry to Galway in the first place.

"Evening, Sean," Harry said grimly.

Sean's face relaxed infinitesimally. "Mr. Harrison," he said, extending his hand for Harry to shake. For a moment Harry eyed him warily, wondering what new game was afoot, wondering what he stood to lose should he shake hands with the wolf in sheep's' clothing currently staring him down. In the end he relented, choosing to go along with it for Ruth's sake, and catching Sean's outstretched hand in a firm grip.

"Everything all right?" Harry asked as Sean beckoned him into the room. His every instinct screamed at him to run, to turn tail and flee from this most obvious of traps, but there across the room sat Ruth, her eyes wide and scared. Harry could not leave her alone with this monster, and so he squared his shoulders, and stepped into the room.

* * *

The moment she saw his face, Ruth had to fight a powerful urge to leap from her chair and fling herself into Harry's arms, so relieved was she to no longer be alone with Sean and his gun. It was baffling, to think that only a few hours before she had been blissful and moaning in his arms in the bed next door, that so much could have transpired in such a small span of time. Their circumstances had changed dramatically, and she could not deny the comfort she drew from Harry's reassuring presence. Broad and strong and shrouded in a cloak of undeniable authority he surveyed the room with an expert gaze, his eyes alighting on her face almost at once, studying her intently as if looking for signs of damage. She gave the smallest shake of her head and a tremulous little smile, trying to convey to him that she was unhurt.

"I'm so glad you're here," Sean said as he closed the door. Harry was in the act of turning to face him, his mouth open to speak, when Ruth saw Sean reach for the gun in the waistband of his trousers.

"Harry!" She cried, leaping to her feet, her heart in her throat.

It only took a moment; Ruth lunged towards him, knowing it was folly, knowing he was too far away for her to reach, and at the sound of her voice Harry tensed, instinctively withdrawing from Sean, his body turning even as Sean raised his gun and fired a single shot, his eyes mad and burning with righteous fury.

* * *

Harry felt his legs give way beneath him, felt the searing pain in his chest, his shoulder, though he could not determine exactly the point of entry, felt himself crumple to the ground, the sound of Ruth's cries of distress echoing loud in his ears. She was by his side in an instant as his vision went dark around the edges, blurred by a fierce, all-consuming wave of pain. He felt her small hands pressed hard to his body, trying to staunch the flow of blood, saw her tear-streaked face so close to his own. He tried to say her name, but no sound passed his lips, his whole body paralyzed by shock. The fog of pain made it difficult to think, difficult to breathe, difficult to move; he knew he needed to do something, and quickly, but he could not so much as lift a finger.

"Why?" Ruth demanded, turning her accusing stare on Sean, horror and fear etched on every line of her face.

"I have to get rid of him, Ruthie," Sean explained patiently, coming to stand over the pair of them. "It's just a shame I have to get rid of you as well. I quite enjoyed our time together."

And with those words, he raised his gun a second time.


	49. Chapter 49

**19 July 2006**

Maren stood by the entrance to the dining room, clutching her mobile to her ear. The moment Mr. Harrison took his leave she had done as ordered, and rung the gardaí; the dispatcher who'd answered the call had gone from a desultory tone of boredom to one of authoritative tension in the span of a heartbeat, as Maren relayed her message. She'd been ordered to remain on the line, to report anything she could see or hear, ordered to remain downstairs and out of sight, assured that a team of officers was even now on their way to her aid. What was it that had inspired such a response? Was it the mention of Sean Kelly, or this man Harry Pearce? Though Mr. Harrison had not stayed long enough to explain his directive, she was fairly certain that she had just been handled a valuable piece of information. Connor had told her, when Mr. Harrison first appeared and began to cause trouble, that his Da was convinced Mr. Harrison was a spy. While Maren didn't share that certainty - he seemed much too old and much too portly to be James Bond - she _was_ certain that he had just revealed his true colors. Maren would have bet every penny she'd ever earned that James Harrison and Harry Pearce were one and the same.

But what did any of this have to do with Sean? Only an hour or so before Maren had watched, slightly mortified, as Sean wrapped his arms around Ruth and led her away. That had been a disturbing moment for Maren, seeing Sean display his affection - an affection Maren had never actually witnessed, and only ever suspected before this moment - for Ruth the very same night she went out on a date with Mr. Harrison. One of the boys had come walking in only a moment later, raising an insinuating eyebrow at Maren and asking her what her mum was doing going upstairs with Sean Kelly. Though she had laughed, pretended it was nothing, Maren had been outraged, to think her mother capable of such double-dealing. Yet she'd seen the fear in Mr. Harrison's eyes, when she told him where Ruth had gone; it was not hurt, it was not betrayal, it was not anger, but sheer, blind terror that danced across his face at the mention of Sean Kelly's name. Why should he be so frightened of Sean, who had always been the very soul of courtesy? What the bloody hell were they doing up there? And where the bloody hell were the police?

Impatience gnawed at her; it had been barely five minutes, since she'd placed her call, and she knew it would likely be another ten, before help arrived. It was in her mind to slip up the stairs, curiosity and fear urging her to go and see for herself what was afoot, but she had the dispatcher on the other end of the line, still peppering her with questions. Her mother had taught her a healthy respect for authority, and Maren could not shake it now, could not quite bring herself to ignore orders from the gardaí, and so she stayed where she was, much as it galled her.

"Can you hear anything?" the dispatcher demanded.

Maren opened her mouth to fire off some waspish reply, but at that very moment she heard the sharp, undeniable echo of a gunshot from upstairs.

"Oh Christ," she gasped, her whole body trembling as she flinched reflexively and shrank back from the doorway. "I think someone's just fired a gun." Tears of frustration, of horror and grief welled up in her eyes. This was unbearable, this being trapped downstairs, with no way of knowing if anyone had been hurt, no choice but to remain where she was, helpless and alone and scared out of her wits.

 _Please be all right,_ she prayed with all the desperate fervor of a child. _Please, God, let my mam be all right._

* * *

It was the sight of Sean Kelly aiming his gun at Ruth that finally dispelled the fog of pain and spurred Harry into action. With a roar of sheer rage, his whole body suddenly tense and powered by a wave of adrenaline the likes of which he had not known for many years, Harry reached beneath him with his good arm, retrieved his handgun, and fired it three times in rapid succession, sending Sean Kelly careening to the floor. Kelly had never seen the weapon, had no idea that Harry still posed a threat, sprawled on the floor and bleeding as he was, and so Kelly had taken no steps to defend himself, Harry's bullets catching him in the chest, his aim unsteady but his proximity sufficient to ensure that his enemy was incapacitated. Beside him Ruth screamed and buried her face in her hands, shaking like a leaf.

There was no time for him to comfort her, no time for him to reassure her, not yet.

"Ruth," Harry said, and speaking even that one word seemed to take every ounce of strength he possessed. " _Ruth,"_ he repeated when she did not respond, his voice heavy with urgency. She looked up at him sharply, her eyes red-rimmed and wide with horror. "You have to get his gun," Harry told her. "Quickly, now."

Ruth nodded, staggering to her feet and crossing to Sean's side, bending down and gingerly retrieving the gun before returning to Harry once more.

"Put it down," he told her, and she did as ordered, depositing it on the floor next to him and looking at him expectantly, radiating a sense of uncertainty and panicked confusion. "Is he breathing?"

"I - I think so," she stammered, glancing at Sean briefly, shuddering at the sight of his blood-spattered chest.

"Help me sit up," Harry demanded. He hated being so short with her, but Ruth was obviously in some distress, maybe even in shock, and he needed her to hold herself together until the gardaí arrived. She reached behind him, her gentle hands taking hold of his shoulder, and with her help Harry managed to haul himself upright, though he could not contain the groan of pain that escaped him as he moved. Now that he was thinking more clearly, he could tell he'd only been struck in the shoulder, but that was enough; every movement, every breath seared him with a terrible burning pain that radiated out from his wound to every inch of his body. With a bout of swearing he shuffled backwards until he was sitting propped up with his back against the bed, the gun clutched in his right hand. Kelly had struck his left shoulder, damn him _; couldn't he have hit the other one?_ Harry thought morosely. Tom Quinn had shot him in almost precisely the same spot years before, and Harry feared that recovering from such an injury would be harder, the second time around.

Across the room, Sean Kelly was taking great gurgling breaths, his body heaving, but he made no attempt to move. Still Harry kept the gun trained on him, knowing that to let his guard down now was folly. The world seemed to spin before his eyes, great black spots swimming across his field of vision; he felt himself begin to lean to the side, but Ruth caught him in an instant. She knelt next to him, one arm around his shoulders, her free hand pressed hard to his shoulder. He hissed in pain, but she kept her hand right where it was, exerting a firm pressure against his wound. Her soft navy dress billowed around her, her beautiful, stricken face so close to his own that he could smell the lingering scent of her perfume, and - he fancied, though he could not say for sure whether it was true or just some desperate hope borne of his love for her - the scent of him, of them, of what they had done together before this night had descended into hellish nightmare. Even in her grief she was lovely, the loveliest woman he had ever known, and he was so grateful that she was still here beside him he could have wept tears of joy, were their situation not so precarious. She was safe, and well, and whole, and holding him in her arms, and somehow they had come through this chaos together.

"Never a dull moment when you're around, Harry," she said faintly.

* * *

 _There's so much blood,_ Ruth thought grimly, keeping her hand pressed to Harry's shoulder, though his blood continued to seep through his shirt, staining her fingers a horrific shade of red. _Poor love._ It would appear Sean's bullet had caught his shoulder; her heart ached, remembering the scar he already bore, thinking of all that he had endured, in service to his country, in defense of her. So much had happened in the last few minutes, her mind was spinning, unable to process everything she'd seen, memories and images flashing before her eyes like some unfathomable film written in a language she could not decipher. Until the moment he'd pulled his gun, she'd trusted that Sean was a good man, that he meant well, that it was Ryan she ought to fear. Now, though, it seemed that everything she'd ever believed to be true had been proven false in an instant, her entire world upended and Ruth herself falling unimpeded through a chasm of calamity. The only constant that remained was Harry; the ferocity of his response when Sean threatened her had stunned her, but then she had always known he had that in him, that he was capable of great violence in defense of those who could not protect themselves. He had killed the man responsible for young Sullivan's death, all those many years before, and now it would seem that he had killed Sean as well, for her sake. Sean was taking his time about dying, but Ruth was certain that he was fading fast, and though she loathed him, though her very soul felt dirty and damaged by the knowledge that she had she given herself to such a man so freely, she was sick at heart to think she was sitting so close to a man in his last moments of life. She felt guilty, violated, exposed, and absolutely bloody terrified, worried about the pallor of Harry's face, ashamed of the role she'd played in the unraveling of events this evening. Watching Harry grow paler by the second, she forced herself to rally, to make a light-hearted comment, to keep him talking at all costs, to keep him with her. _Don't leave me, Harry,_ she pleaded silently. _Not yet. Not now._

"Never a dull moment when you're around, Harry," she murmured.

He turned his head to gaze at her, his normally sharp eyes clouded with pain but still devouring every inch of her face, the intensity of his scrutiny telling her without words that while she was consumed with worry for him, he was similarly fretting over her. With his right hand he reached up, tangling his fingers in her hair, and drew her head down toward him, dropping a gentle kiss against her forehead.

"It'll be all right, Ruth," he told her softly. How very like Harry, she thought, staring into his eyes as he released her; he had seen straight through her attempt at joviality, had seen her fear, and even in the midst of his own pain he had sought to comfort her. She shifted beside him slightly, resting her head against his body, drawing comfort from his nearness.

"Sean killed George," Harry continued, the power of his voice fading fast.

"What?" Ruth demanded, her heart pounding in her chest, hating the harshness of her tone but unable to restrain her shock, her indignation at such a pronouncement.

"Ryan told us the whole story tonight, and his lads are talking to the police right now, backing him up every step of the way. It was all Sean, from the very beginning."

"Oh, god, no," Ruth breathed. _Please, no,_ she thought desperately, unable to contain her dismay as she realized how completely she had been duped. For the last two years, she had spent countless nights in the bed of the man who'd murdered her husband, and the sheer revolting horror of it set her stomach to roiling. She would have been sick right then and there, her body heaving beneath the weight of her horror, were it not for Harry. He needed her, needed her to be strong, and so for her sake she swallowed against the surge of bile in her throat. There would be time later for her to fall to pieces.

"The gardaí are on their way," he told her. He was speaking in a whisper, his eyes closed in meager defense against the agony of his wound. "Maren rang them."

"Maren?" Ruth asked. She had been certain that after the revelation of Sean's duplicity nothing could shock her any more, and yet Harry had disabused her of that notion almost at once. Her fear was magnified, as she now added her daughter to the ever-growing list of worries that plagued her; how had Maren gotten mixed up in all this? _My poor sweet girl,_ she thought morosely. _She deserves so much better than this._

"She's all right," Harry reassured her. "She's downstairs. They'll have told her to stay put, try to keep her out of the way. And they'll take care of her, when they get here."

"And what about you, Harry?" Ruth asked, looking across at this man she loved so fiercely, so completely, against all reason. And she knew she loved him, had known it for decades now, no matter how hard she had tried to convince herself otherwise. There was no one else in the world for her, no one else who would ever know her, ever hold her, ever love her the way he did. And in that moment she resolved to tell him so, the moment they were assured of her safety. It was high time she spoke the truth aloud. "Will you be all right?"

Though he did not open his eyes, Harry smiled at her softly. "As long as you stay with me, Ruth, I'll be just fine."

* * *

By the time the gardaí arrived, Maren was in hysterics. The sound of the second shot had seared her to the core, and she was shaking so badly she'd been forced to take shelter in one of the booths by the door, her legs unwilling to hold her up any longer. They came storming through the door, grim-faced men armed to the teeth and dressed all in black; one of them veered off into the dining room to collect her, wrapping his arm round her waist and hauling her bodily to her feet, escorting her out into the carpark and propping her up against his car. He asked her questions, but Maren did not hear them; she remained deaf to the sound of his voice, her gaze fixed on the pub in unwavering terror. Her mother was in there, somewhere, and Maren would not breathe freely until she knew her mam was well. So she stood, arms wrapped around her waist, and prayed.

* * *

Peters was the first man through the door, when the cavalry finally arrived; Harry had tried to rally, at the sound of the door bursting open, but he had lost a great deal of blood, and he could do no more than feebly try to raise his arm, allowing it to fall uselessly back to his side once he realized that the newcomers were friendlies.

"What happened here, then?" Peters asked in a trembling voice as he loomed over Ruth and Harry, entwined together on the floor.

"Bastard shot me," Harry explained tersely. "That's his gun there. He would have shot Ruth as well, but I got him first. I'm not sure if he's still alive."

"He's breathing!" one of the lads called out from the far side of the room. Beside him, Ruth heaved a great sigh; he could feel her quivering, pressed against him, wobbling right on the very edge of falling apart completely, but to her credit she did not give in. He was fiercely proud of her in that moment, this woman he loved with his whole heart; she was stronger than even she knew, and he remained in awe of her.

"Get the medics up here!" Peters called to the lads in the corridor. The tramping of their feet back down the stairs was a welcome sound to Harry, who was quite looking forward to be trundled out of that room and pumped full of pain killers at the earliest possibly moment.

"I sent some lads round to his house," Peters told him, crouching down beside him and trying to get a look at his wound. It was a futile attempt; Harry was certain it would take an act of God to get Ruth to remove her hand from his shoulder just now. "They found his books. The lads we're questioning back at the station are corroborating Ryan's story, and after this little stunt he's pulled, I think it's safe to say no one has to worry about Sean Kelly any more."

To say that Harry was relieved would be an understatement; he had been worried, before Kelly shot him, that there would be no way to prove the word of one brother against another. Now that he knew for a fact that the evidence against Sean was solid, he could be certain that Ruth was safe, and that was worth everything to him.

"Thank you," Harry told him earnestly.

Any further conversation was cut short by the arrival of the medics, who pulled Ruth bodily away from him before loading him up onto a stretcher to be carried down out of the pub.

"I'll come with you, Harry," Ruth said morosely as she stood beside Peters, watching him with pleading eyes as they carried him away. "I'll be there."

"That's good," Harry murmured as he began to fade out of consciousness. "That's good."

* * *

When her mother appeared in the doorway to the pub Maren let loose a strangled cry and wrenched herself out of the grasp of the guarda who'd been keeping an eye on her, sprinting across the car park and into her mother's arms. She began to weep uncontrollably as her mother held her close, relief washing over her in waves so strong she could not contain the outpouring of her emotion.

"I was so scared," she managed to choke out between great gasping sobs. Ruth clutched her that much tighter, running a soothing hand up and down her back.

"It's all right, love," her mother whispered. "It's all right. I'm here. Everything is going to be all right."

And somehow, though she was scared beyond all reason, though she was terribly confused, though she'd watched in horror as Mr. Harrison was loaded into an ambulance, Maren found she believed those words, for no other reason than that it was her mother who had spoken them. So long as she had her mother, she knew everything would work out for the best.


	50. Chapter 50

**A/N: Here we go y'all, Chapter 50! We've come a long way; my sincerest thanks to those of you who've stuck with me since March! There's only about 4-5 chapters left to go now, so I'm going to try to get them up quickly, and get this story put to bed in the next week or so.**

* * *

 **8 June 1985**

"I'm hearing rumblings, Harry," Clive said seriously in a tone of voice Harry recognized all too well. It was Clive's _the-shit-has-hit-the-fan_ tone, the one he used when matters were grave, and he was bound and determined not to be made into a scapegoat, when he was disappointed and irate and pushed beyond the bounds of his natural inclination towards clemency and understanding. It was a tone Harry had heard from him many times in the past, in the moments before some wayward agent was unceremoniously kicked out in the cold for having committed some unforgivable folly. Harry was standing on a street corner in the dark, payphone pressed to his ear, listening with bated breath, suddenly convinced that now it would be his turn. When the conversation had begun Harry had been impatient, his thoughts meandering down the narrow twisting streets back to Shaw's pub where Ruth would be even now, shooing out the last of her customers and closing up shop for the evening, finishing the last of her nightly duties before slipping up the stairs to wait for him in his room. As it was Saturday, Harry had waited until nigh on two a.m. to make his call, not wanting his clandestine wanderings to draw the attention of any late-night revelers; though waiting made a certain amount of sense from a practical standpoint, truth was he was bloody exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to fall into bed with Ruth in his arms. He had started this phone call impatient and rather bored, and now he found himself consumed by dread.

"Clive-" he began, fully prepared to launch into an explanation of the value of his work, the dastardly plots they'd uncovered, the tips that had led them to believe that his six month sojourn in Galway was well worth the expense and the resultant headaches, but Clive cut him off sharply.

"Word is Magee may be in Scotland, may have been there all along. If the local branch finds him before we do there will be hell to pay, Harry. The Prime Minister requested you specifically, and if she finds out that you've spent the last six months chasing your tail in a circle, you can rest assured our relationship with Downing Street will turn rather frosty."

Harry's shoulders slumped; the truth was, he could find no defense for his actions, could do no more than feebly assert that he had only done as ordered, gone where he was bid with all the unquestioning acquiescence of the trained soldier he had been. For months now doubt had been growing in his mind, fear gnawing at his guts, a small, insistent voice whispering in the back of his mind that he had been led astray, that there was nothing to be gained by staying, but that voice had lost out to other, more compelling forces, the desire for vengeance against the despicable Kellys, and the siren song of the heat between Ruth's legs calling out to him, urging him to remain where he was, just a little while longer. So he had kept his reservations to himself, and now it seemed that his gamble had backfired spectacularly.

"What makes them think he's in Scotland?" Harry asked quietly, shifting uneasily on his feet and trying a different tactic. There was every possibility that the local boys in Scotland were as misinformed as Harry himself, that Magee was still in the wind. It was galling, to think that one man could evade all the might of the British Security Services for eight months, and yet here they were, none the wiser as to his whereabouts. No doubt someone was helping him, but who?

"There's an active service unit in Glasgow that Paul Meyers has been keeping an eye on for the last few months," Clive explained gruffly. Meyers was head of MI-5 operations in Scotland, and one of Clive's most detested rivals. "He's trying to embed an agent with them, and he's caught whiff of a rumor that Magee will be joining them for a big attack. They're shipping in all the parts for a bomb, and Meyers has an operation underway to stop them before the whole thing tips off."

"I've got PRIA nutters shipping in explosives here," Harry pointed out feebly. It wasn't the same, and he knew it. Meyers had a verifiable, PIRA-sponsored cell on his hands, and all Harry had was a bunch of ragtag Belfast ex-pats and one drunken, wheelchair-bound bomb maker. Taken altogether, his case wasn't convincing, and he knew it.

"Then give me something I can take to the PM, Harry," Clive said sharply. "And pack your bags. One way or another, I want you back in London by July. By all accounts, this operation has been a cock-up from start to finish, and if you can't deliver results, I'll send in someone who can."

Though Harry longed to offer some harsh retort, to spill out all his resentment, his bitterness, his frustration with the hand he'd been dealt, he bit his tongue. It wasn't Clive's fault, after all, that Harry had been sent to Galway, and the resultant failures could only be blamed on Harry himself, his own lack of leadership, his own mistakes. And if he were due back in London in a month, he could ill afford to burn his bridges with Clive, the one person he could depend on to defend him.

"I won't let you down," Harry told him quietly. He knew he was in no position to make such a promise, but he did it anyway. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint Clive now.

On the other end of the line Clive sighed heavily. "There's one last thing," he said.

Harry wanted to sigh, too, in frustration and despair, but he held his breath, wondering what fresh hell awaited him.

"This informant of yours, this Lolita," Clive continued, and Harry felt his heart plummet, heavy as lead in his chest. "For God's sake, Harry, tell me you haven't compromised this mission for the sake of a woman."

"Lolita?" Harry scoffed, desperately hoping his voice would not betray him; his hands had already begun to shake. _How does he know?_ Harry wondered dismally. _Who told him?_ "She's just a girl, Clive. I have a wife and two children to worry about, I'm not chasing after a bit of skirt."

Clive grunted in a distinctly unconvinced sort of way. "That hasn't stopped better men than you," he said. "Keep your wits about you. This is going to turn nasty, I can feel it."

"I will," Harry said, and with that the call was ended, arrangements having been made for Harry to check back in on Wednesday, barring any unforeseen calamity. He hung up the phone and hesitated there for a moment, running his fingers through his hair, mulling over every decision he had made since arriving in Galway, every misstep, misdeed, misadventure that had led him to this point. Despite the mental gymnastics he could not shake the feeling that his gravest error had been falling into bed with Ruth, that he had lost sight of his goal months ago when he first felt the delirious, addictive trembling of her body arching in bliss beneath him. Were it not for her, he likely would have left Galway weeks before, would have conceded that Magee was nowhere to be found. As it was, his desire to protect her, his desire to hold her, had won out against the brutal practicality his job required of him. And now, one way or another, he would have to leave her before the month was out.

He would have to leave her, would have to admit the folly of his love for her, would have to return to the wife he had wronged, the children he had abandoned, the life he had all but forgotten during the long days and longer nights he had spent fully immersed in the legend of James Harrison. The time had come to set aside the legend; Harry Pearce was waiting for him.

With a sigh of deep regret, Harry set off into the night.

* * *

Across town Ruth was industriously scrubbing down the bar, keeping one eye on the clock on the far wall, and the other on her only customer, Sean Kelly. Ruth couldn't quite figure out what Sean was doing there, all alone, long after everyone else had departed, lingering over a single glass of whiskey, but his presence left her feeling ill at ease. To be sure, if she had to face a Kelly alone in the empty pub, she'd rather it was Sean than Ryan, but she couldn't help but recall the last time she had spoken to him alone, the ominous warning he'd delivered. Had he come to offer ill tidings once again? Somehow she didn't think so; the only time he'd spoken to her all evening was to order his drink. Since that moment, he had not engaged her at all, though every time she looked his way, she found his dark eyes watching her, hooded and unreadable in the dim glow of the overhead lights.

She would have to speak to him, she knew; it was nearly two, and James would be waiting for her. Just the thought of it set her hands to trembling in nervous excitation; even now, when she'd spent more nights than she could count in his bed, she still looked forward to each new encounter with all the jubilant delight of a child on Christmas Eve. He was clever, and kind, and he knew how to make her body burn, and she could not wait to be in his arms once more.

With a renewed sense of purpose she squared her shoulders and made her way down the length of the bar, intent on rousing Sean from his silent contemplation and sending him his on his way.

"Is it about that time, Ruth?" he asked her as she approached.

She nodded, wringing the rag she'd used to clean the bar between her hands. At this gesture from her Sean raised his glass as if in toast, and downed its contents in one gulp before setting it down upon the bartop.

"I'd best be off, then. Let you get on with your evening," he said, sliding to his feet. Ruth did not know him well enough to determine if this last comment was meant to be an insinuation, but she feared it was, feared it was intended to remind her that Sean suspected something was going on between her and James. Though her ruse with George had satisfied most of the local gossips, Sean Kelly remained something of an unknown quantity to her.

"Mind how you go," she murmured softly, uncertainly, wishing he would just leave already. He turned toward the door, but then stopped and pivoted back to her as if he'd just remembered something, and Ruth's heart began to pound as his gaze fell upon her once more.

"Is the Englishman about?" Sean asked casually. It was impossible to tell whether he was toying with her, or asking for some reason of his own, but either way, Ruth did not fancy being on the receiving end of such a question, being so tied to James in anyone's mind that they might ask her of his comings and goings.

"I've no idea," she answered truthfully. James had told her to go up to his room when she was finished with work, had told her that he had business to tend to, had instructed her to wait for him if he was not there. It was entirely possible he'd slipped in through the side door earlier in the evening, but Ruth had no way of knowing for a certainty where he was.

"Well," Sean said, stretching his back slightly, managing somehow to show off the rippling muscles of his biceps in the process. "Next time you see him, you may want to warn him not to go wandering off by himself after dark. It's not safe."

"Sean-" She hated the desperate, frightened tone of her voice, but she could not contain her worry for James.

"Have a good night, Ruth," he told her, and departed without another word.

* * *

Harry was only three streets away from the pub, his feet leading him down the familiar path on autopilot while his mind worked feverishly, trying to fathom some way out of his predicament, when disaster struck. Perhaps if he had been less preoccupied with thoughts of Ruth and the inevitable ending of their affair, perhaps if he had not been so busy berating himself for allowing love to supersede his duty, he might have been paying more attention to his surroundings. As it was he had quite taken his own personal safety for granted, the familiarity of the city around him lulling him into a false sense of security, and so he did not see them until it was too late.

There were four of them, dressed in dark clothes and moving on silent feet; they came charging out of an alleyway just as Harry was walking by. One of them kicked him smartly in the knee from behind, sending him sprawling on the pavement, and then they were on him, kicking him, punching him, never allowing him a moment to breathe, let alone a chance to rise to his feet. Beneath the weight of their blows a dozen injuries sprung up, blood leaking from his lips, his freshly-healed ribs aching; Harry pulled his knees in tight, tried to protect his face even as he tried to land a blow of his own, but to no avail. A particularly sharp kick caught him in the chest and sent him sprawling, and the next thing he knew, Connor Kelly was leaning over him in the darkness, his face swimming across Harry's field of vision. Kelly was so close Harry could smell the reek of whiskey on his breath, the stench of the docks that clung to his clothes.

"This is no place for you, Englishman," Kelly snarled, and with those words he sank a knife deep into Harry's belly, laughing at Harry's groan of pain.


	51. Chapter 51

**8 June 1985**

 _Get up,_ Harry told himself firmly, his left hand pressed hard to the wound on his lower abdomen, trying to staunch the flow of blood. It was late, and there was no one about, and Harry knew the chances of his being discovered before he bled to death on the pavement were slim. He had to get up, and get to help, quickly. The payphone he used was too far away; it would take too long to get there, and he didn't fancy his odds, particularly given the fact that he did not know what had become of Kelly and his goons after they disappeared off into the night laughing amongst themselves. The pain lanced through him, sharp and hot, blood seeping through his shirt to stain his hands despite his best efforts to quell it. _You have to get up._

Harry had spent most of his adult life in intense situations, first as a soldier, then as a spy. He was strong, he was tenacious, he was - as his mother had often remarked fondly - stubborn as a mule. He was determined not to die like this, his blood filling up some dingy gutter in Ireland, his life taken by a group of common thugs. There was too much at stake - his pride, his family, his duty - for Harry to give in now. With a nearly superhuman effort he roused himself, unable to contain the groan of pain that escaped him as he laboriously drug himself to his feet. The pain was so great, and his loss of blood so egregious, that his head spun as he righted himself, the world tipping slightly to the left. He nearly collapsed on the spot, but he reached out and caught himself on a nearby storefront, his hand pressed flat against the brick wall as he struggled to pull himself together.

 _One foot in front of the other,_ he thought grimly. The hardest part was behind him now, he knew; having succeeded in regaining his footing, he need only walk the short distance to Shaw's. Ruth was there, waiting for him. His Ruth, brilliant and lovely and gentle and kind; he _had_ to reach her. She was waiting for him, and he could not bear the thought of disappointing her, of leaving her all alone to clean up the mess that Harry himself had made. She could help him, could ring for an ambulance, could speak to him in that sweet soft voice he loved so well, keep him awake and conscious and coherent long enough for the medics to arrive. _Get to Ruth._

It was a mantra he repeated over and over to himself as he took one painful step, and then another. _Get to Ruth._ Her face swum across his field of vision, her luminous eyes, her soft lips, the high curve of her cheekbone; he chased after that mirage in the darkness, wanting nothing more than to reach her and the warmth and comfort she promised him, if only he could hold on just a little while longer.

 _Get to Ruth._

* * *

After Sean left, Ruth busied herself with the last of her duties in the pub, carefully wiping down the tables, sweeping the floors, trying not to dwell on the words he'd spoken to her, the ominous warning he'd delivered to her. His motivations for seeking her out, for trying in his own way to prevent disaster, completely eluded her. Though he and Ryan were to her mind as different as it was possible for two brothers to be, he never spoke a disparaging word about his little brother, and they often went out together, to the pub, to parties, drinking and laughing with their friends. Why would he seek to undermine his family's plans, when he had never before made any attempt to distance himself from them? And why was he coming to her? They had never really spoken before all this trouble started, but now he seemed to regard her as an ally after a fashion, trusting her to deliver his tidings without betraying his confidence. The whole situation left her feeling confused and out of sorts, and she rushed through the last of her duties, thinking only of James, of reaching him before some sort of calamity struck, of resting in his bed with her head pillowed on his chest, surrounded by the warmth of his embrace.

It was foolish, she knew, to rely on him so heavily for reassurance when he was destined only to leave her. It was foolish, to give her heart so freely, so completely, to a man who had wed another. Though she guarded her tongue well and never spoke the word _love_ aloud to him, she had shown him in a thousand different ways, every day they were together, just how very much he meant to her, how much she relied on him, how much she desired him, how much she needed him. The love that burned bright between them had changed her, had broken down the walls she used to guard her heart and with those shattered pieces fashioned a sanctuary where they could retreat together, safe from the world. The thought of losing him cut her sharp as a knife, left her nearly breathless with heartache, even now, when she knew that she would see him in a matter of minutes. One day soon he would be gone, and she would be left alone, defenseless, missing half of her fragile heart. It did not bear thinking about, but she knew there was nothing she could do to stop that calamity. She felt as if she were falling through some vast chasm, down and down and down, clinging to James though she knew eventually they would reach the bottom, and their doom.

She was so distracted by her melancholy thoughts that she very nearly missed the sound of someone knocking upon the front door of the pub. Well, perhaps _knocking_ was a generous description; it was in truth one great loud _thump._ She turned sharply, wondering what new game was afoot now, wondering who had come to disturb her so very late at night, when all the other customers had long since departed. For a moment she hesitated, uncertain as to whether or not she ought to go and see what the noise was about; her thoughts drifted back to Sean, to his warning about being out alone after dark, and to her own rather precarious predicament. As a young woman on her own so very late at night, she knew it might well be folly to answer the door. There was no one around to help her, should she find herself in need of aid. Still, though, her feet carried her towards the door, curiosity winning out against her instinct for self-preservation. _Please don't be Ryan,_ she thought as she approached. _Please, please don't be Ryan._

When she reached the door Ruth took a deep breath, steeling herself against the oncoming storm, before unlocking it and gingerly swinging the door open.

The moment the door gave way James very nearly came tumbling through it, ashen-faced and breathing like a bellows, his shirtfront stained a horrible shade of crimson, his face bruised and bloody.

"Bloody hell!" Ruth cried, reaching out to catch him as he all but collapsed in her arms, his blood staining the front of her dress. He let out a groan as they came to a stop leaning against the wall, his forehead resting against her shoulder, his body trembling in her arms.

The sight of him in such pain, such distress, the extent of his injuries not yet evident but certainly grave, tore at Ruth's heart, and she would have wept, had fear not wrapped its cold fingers round her heart in a vice-like grip. She had to get help, and soon, but she could do nothing while her arms were full of him.

"Come on then, love," she told him in a trembling, pleading voice. "Let's sit you down."

He muttered something unintelligible, but though he was weak and weary, he made an effort to move with her, and together they stumbled across the foyer until she was able to guide him into a chair behind the front desk. His head lolled back on his shoulders, his hands pressed hard against his stomach, drawing her attention to his most dire wound. With one hand Ruth reached for the telephone and with the other she cradled his cheek, forcing him to look at her though his warm eyes were unfocused and clouded by a haze of pain.

"Stay with me, James," she begged him as she rang for help.

As quickly as she could explained the situation to the dispatcher, relayed her location and the fact that she believed her charge had been stabbed; James's shirt boasted a ragged tear that looked more the result of a knife than a bullet. Ruth had seen her fair share of minor scrapes and bruises, having spent nearly every day of her life in the pub. David didn't like to involve the authorities, when brawls turned bloody, and she had been forced to play the nurse, while David and his friends drank whiskey and laughed about the fight. She was not a professional, though, and she knew that James's injury was more than she could handle on her own. Once she was assured that help was on the way she hung up the phone, and turned her attentions once more to her lover, her heart pounding erratically in her chest, nearly blinded by terror.

"Who did this to you?" she asked him softly, untying her apron from around her waist and folding it up to use as a makeshift bandage. Carefully she moved his hands, immediately replacing them with the apron, pressing down hard against the flat plane of his stomach. How many times had she lain there beside him, her head resting on his chest, her fingertips dancing across the same skin that was now torn and jagged beneath her touch? His body was as familiar to her as her own, the hardness of his muscle, the softness of his hair, every scar, every freckle writ large across her heart, and now that body she loved so well was failing before her very eyes. For a moment she worried that she had already lost the battle, that he had already slipped away from her, but then he spoke, and she could have wept from sheer relief.

"Connor bloody Kelly," James growled, wincing as she applied more pressure to his wound.

"You certainly know how to make friends, don't you?" she asked wryly, trying to keep him with her, trying to forestall the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.

James gave a weak little chuckle at that, a chuckle that faded quickly beneath his grimace of pain.

"It's not the first time I've been stabbed," he told her in a thin voice. "I'll be all right, you'll see."

Even now, when he was covered in blood and dancing on the edge of unconsciousness, his first thought was of her, protecting her, reassuring her, and the tears she had been trying so very hard to hold at bay began to stream down her cheeks.

"Stupid man," she choked out, taking a ragged breath. Beneath her he smiled softly, but he did not speak; his breathing was laboured, and she began to fret anew, wondering what sort of havoc Connor Kelly had wrought, wondering if this was it, the moment she lost him forever, not to his wife as she had feared, but to an altogether more insidious enemy.

Carefully she shifted her position, sitting down on the desk and resting her feet on the edge of the chair, James's body caught between her legs as she leaned forward, mindful to keep a consistent pressure on his wound, trying with all her might to will the blood loss to stop.

"Look at me," she demanded, seeing him beginning to fade.

With some effort he wrenched his eyes open, silently following her commands, trying his best to do as she told him. At this angle she was close enough to reach out and brush her lips across the darkening bruise on his cheek, and so she did, earning herself a soft hum from him in response.

"Talk to me," she instructed him, "Please, James, talk to me."

He was quiet for a moment, and the silence left her utterly terrified. "Please," she breathed.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said, his eyes closed, his lips hardly moving as he spoke. "I just needed your help. I wanted to protect you, Ruth, and I failed. I'm so sorry."

His words inspired a fresh wave of tears, and she could not stop herself from leaning over and kissing him once again. "You've nothing to be sorry for," she told him firmly when she pulled away.

"I never should have dragged you into this," he continued, struggling for every word, but continuing on because she had asked it of him. Ruth recognized this, recognized that the only reason he was still speaking was that the request had come from _her_ , that his love for her, his concern for her, pushed him beyond his own physical limits. He had walked, God only knew how far, bleeding and in pain, just to reach her, and now he was fighting with every ounce of strength he possessed to stay with her. In that moment she allowed herself to acknowledge, for perhaps the first time, that he did truly love her, that he had chosen _her_ , not for the sake of her body or what comfort she might give him, but for the sake of the regard he bore her. Always before she had wondered at him, at his motivations, had trusted him in the darkness and doubted him in the daylight, but in that moment, she _knew._

"James," she breathed, but then he was speaking again, and she fell silent, hanging on his every word in rapt attention.

"You ought to be happy," he told her. "You ought to be smiling. You ought to be free. Forget me, Ruth. You deserve so much better."

"There is nothing and no one better than you," she answered.

At those words he smiled softly, his full lips parted as if he were about to speak again, but no sound came forth.

"James," she whispered his name, leaning that much closer to him, brushing the tip of her nose against his cheek. "James," she said again, when no answer was forthcoming.

Still he did not speak. She pulled back, her gaze travelling over him frantically, taking in his closed eyes, his heaving chest, the blood that had already soaked through her thin white apron.

"James!" she cried, nearly hysterical now with fear, but beneath her hands her lover remained still and quiet. _Oh, God, please no,_ she pleaded silently, weeping in earnest now.

That was how the medics found her, when finally they arrived, sobbing and cradling James's body, unwilling to part with him. Her fingertips were painted red, her dress wet with blood and sticking to her skin; she knew she must look a fright, but her only concern was for him. They had to pull her away from him; a tall, stern-looking man caught her by the arm and dragged her to the side where she watched in stricken horror as they set about tending to James.

"What happened here then, love?" the tall man asked.

Ruth looked up at him, knowing her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, knowing the picture she presented, a young girl covered in blood and weeping over an Englishman. James had not told her what to do, what he wanted her to say, how he wanted to handle this, but Ruth knew that the time had come to put an end to the madness. Whether James wanted her to or not, she was bound and determined to speak the truth.

"It was Connor Kelly," she said firmly. "Connor Kelly tried to kill him."

And with those words, the die was cast. There was no taking it back, no stopping this flood now that the dam had been breached. It was time for the Kellys to answer for their sins.


	52. Chapter 52

**20 July 2006**

It was so late as to be early, Wednesday night having slowly given way to Thursday morning while Ruth stood in the doorway to the pub, her arms wrapped around her daughter, trying valiantly not to weep, not now, not yet, not where Maren could see. As she ran her hands soothingly up and down her daughter's back she caught sight of her own skin in the dim glow of the lamp and a chill coursed the length of her spine; her hands were stained crimson with Harry's blood. A wave of horror, sickening and fierce, washed over her, and she released her hold on her daughter at once, stepping away and taking a deep, shuddering breath, trying to hold the pieces of her heart together, just a little while longer.

Maren was staring up at her, blue eyes wide and round with shock, still, hysteria lingering in the lines and planes of her face, but before Ruth could offer her any reassurance the agent Harry had referred to as Peters came walking up to them.

"Ruth?" he said softly. She turned to face him, wondering numbly when he'd learned her name; she couldn't recall having introduced herself. Not that it mattered. There were only two things in the entire world that mattered to Ruth in that moment; Maren, alive and well and unscathed standing before her, and Harry, shuffled off into an ambulance, taken from her, in God only knew what sort of condition after the trauma he'd suffered.

"I know you'll be wanting to join Harry as soon as you can," Peters said apologetically, "but we have to take your statement now, before you leave the scene. Is there somewhere we could go to talk?"

"This way," she said, turning on her heel and leading him back towards the dining room. She wanted, very much, to reach out and wrap her arm around Maren's shoulders, to cling to her daughter, to find reassurance through that comforting nearness, but she could not bear the thought of her bloodstained hands touching her child. There was something unseemly about it, something terrible and violent in the implication, and Ruth did not want the hideous reality of all she had seen to sully her daughter's heart. It didn't matter, really; Maren came with them without prompting, following along in their wake like a frightened puppy.

Ruth kept right on walking until she was behind the bar, drawing some confidence from the familiarity of her surroundings; this was her place, her domain, the only spot in all the world where she felt truly in charge, in command, in control. She turned her back as Peters and Maren took their seats across from her, busying herself with scrubbing Harry's blood from her hands at the little sink on the back wall, trying not to stare at the swirling scarlet flood that burst forth the moment the water touched her skin.

"What happened tonight, Ruth?" Peters asked her gently. The softness of his voice threw her off balance; she had expected this conversation to be professional, impersonal, direct. She had not anticipated empathy, and for a moment she wondered where it had come from, the compassion he was directing her way. How much did he know about her situation? Ruth asked herself as she continued to mechanically scrub her hands. How much of a confession was he looking for here? Did she need to detail all her many sins, explain all the nights she had spent in Sean Kelly's bed, explain all the myriad salacious twistings and turnings of the road that had led her to this point?

Beneath the stream of scalding water, Ruth's hands began to shake. _Start at the beginning,_ she told herself.

"Sean came round to see me," she began carefully. "It was about...I don't know, just gone eleven, maybe. He said he wanted to speak to me. I didn't want to speak to him, but then he showed me his gun, and told me to take him upstairs."

Even with her back turned, even above the sound of the water and the frantic pounding of her own heart loud as a drum in her ears, she could hear Maren's sharp intake of breath, could practically feel her daughter's distress. Though she longed to shield Maren from the horrors she had witnessed this night, she knew it was a story she needed to tell.

"I didn't want to cause trouble; we had customers in the pub and Maren was behind the bar. So I took him up to an empty room. He told me that it was Ryan who killed your friend tonight, that Ryan was the one who...who killed my husband."

There was a stubborn stain beneath one of her fingernails that would not come clean, no matter how hard she scrubbed it, but Ruth redoubled her efforts, wanting to prolong her distraction at the sink, wanting to put off the moment when she would have to turn to face her daughter, and see the heartache written across her face. Ruth was certain that the moment she locked eyes with Maren her artful reserve would crumble, and she would shatter under the weight of her grief.

"Did he seem rational? Did he threaten you?"

That word, _threaten,_ seemed to contain within it a world of insidious meaning. Ruth knew what he was driving at, couched in such a delicate turn of phrase; she had been alone in a hotel room with an armed madman for an hour. A shudder went through her, as she pondered how close she had come to calamity.

"No," she breathed. "He told me the gun was for protection from Ryan. I believed him. He seemed...frightened, not aggressive." She fell silent, recalling the emotions that had coursed through her, while she waited in that room with him. Though the gun had made her uncomfortable, and Sean's demeanor had been more distressing still, she had trusted him, had believed in him; after all, she had always suspected Ryan's guilt, and Sean had always been so kind to her. He had touched her gently, had never pushed her, and the thought that it was him, this man she had given herself to without reservation, and not his dastardly brother who had brought this devastation down upon her head still boggled her mind. _How could I have been so foolish?_ She berated herself.

"Then what happened?" Peters prodded her gently when she had remained quiet too long. Her hands had begun to sting, from the constant, vicious scrubbing she was giving them. She knew she ought to stop, that she was as clean as she was ever like to be, but she had become mesmerized by the movement, and she carried on, heedless.

"Then Harry came," she answered. "I was so relieved to see him, I thought if anyone could help me it was him. And the minute the door closed behind him, Sean shot him."

The tremors that had started in her hands slowly spread out, her whole body shaking with adrenaline, with fear, with guilt, but she carried on, knowing she was nearly finished with her tale, reminding herself that all she had to do was speak, and then she could go and see to Harry. Could hold his hand, could tell him how she loved him, could see that warm smile light up his dear face, and know that he was well. _Not long now,_ she told herself.

"I tried to help him," she said, her hands finally coming to a stop as she willed herself not to break. "Sean said he had to get rid of Harry, and then he said he'd have to get rid of me, too. That's when Harry shot him. I didn't even know he had a gun. And then I stayed with him, until you arrived."

All the time Ruth had been talking, Peters had been taking notes, furiously scribbling in a little book. She finally turned off the water and reached for a rag to dry her hands, steeling herself as she turned to face him. Beside him Maren was staring at her in slackjawed horror, as if she simply couldn't believe the story she'd just heard. Ruth longed to reach out, to comfort her, to remind her that what was done was done, and they were all safe now, but she held herself back, not wanting to share such a private moment with the hard-faced man sat next to her.

"And that's it?" Peters asked as he completed his notes. "Did Sean say anything about his business, or why he might have killed your husband?"

A small, troubled sound passed Maren's lips at those words; inwardly, Ruth cursed Peters for stating the truth so bluntly, but she gave no outward sign of her distress. For three long years she had kept her suspicions about George's death to herself, had shielded her daughter from the terrible truth she feared to speak aloud, and now that truth had been unceremoniously dumped in Maren's lap, and Ruth herself would be left to pick up the pieces.

"He didn't explain," she answered. "Before he...died, George told me he saw something, on the docks. Something that scared him. No doubt word got back to Sean, and he took steps to protect himself. You are certain it was Sean?" she added a bit desperately. Before this night she had been so sure that Ryan was the one to blame, and now that she had been proven wrong, she wanted only the truth, wanted only reassurance that the last of her doubts could be dispelled, that George's troubled memory could be laid to rest.

"As certain as we can be," Peters hedged. "Ryan told a convincing story, and some of the other lads have backed him up. Sean's been taken to hospital; if he survives the night, might be he could tell us himself."

Ruth nodded glumly; as far as she was concerned, that was an unlikely prospect. She'd seen Sean, seen the state of him before he was trundled out of the room, and she could not believe that he would live long enough to confess his many sins.

"Right," Peters said, rising to his feet. "That's all for now. The Garda will follow up with you, probably tomorrow." He reached out, offering his hand, and Ruth took it, shaking it once before allowing the man to depart in silence.

It was a silence that lingered, growing stronger and more uncomfortable with each passing second, as Ruth's eyes fell upon her daughter's face. That face she loved so well, that face so like her own, ravaged now by fear and weeping; _what have I done?_ Ruth wondered, tears welling up as the moments continued to tick by. _Oh, my darling girl, you deserved so much better._

"Mam?" Maren asked in a shaking voice. That voice shattered what little remained of Ruth's composure, and with a gasp she dropped the rag she'd been worrying between her hands, and all but ran from behind the bar, catching Maren in her arms and holding her tight as her daughter began to weep.

"It's all right, love," Ruth whispered, her voice choked by her own tears. "It's all right. It's all over now."

* * *

The coffee was thin and greasy, the chair hard and unforgiving, the lights overhead sterile, harsh, overbright; nothing about this place was inviting or comfortable, but Ruth would not be roused from her seat in the little waiting room down the hall from the surgery where the doctors were tending to Harry's wound. If asked about it later, she would not be able to explain how it was that she had managed to drive herself and Maren from the pub to the hospital, as wrung out and distracted as she was, but she had made a promise to Harry, and somehow she had kept it. Upon arriving she and Maren had been shunted off to the little room, and there they sat, two hours later, still waiting for word of Harry's condition. The doctors had refused to speak to her, explaining that she was not family and as such was not entitled to information about his care, but though she had bristled, Ruth had bit her tongue and agreed to wait.

Beside her Maren was resting, her head pillowed on Ruth's shoulder, and though her arm had long since gone numb, Ruth made no attempt to move her. The closeness was comforting, just now. It had been so long since last she'd held her daughter like this, so long since Maren had needed the calming touch of her mother, and Ruth was enjoying it, in a way, remembering how things had been when Maren was small and as yet untroubled by the chaos of the world around her. It was in her mind to think that Maren had fallen asleep, but then she spoke, her voice low and uncertain.

"Can I ask you something?" Maren asked timidly.

Ruth smiled, though she knew Maren could not see it. They were so alike in so many ways, Ruth and this child she had raised, and she knew the curiosity must have been gnawing away at Maren, knew that likely there were several questions waiting to spill from her lips.

"Of course, love," Ruth answered.

"Mr. Harrison isn't who he says is, is he?"

 _Clever girl,_ Ruth thought wryly, pressing a kiss against Maren's hair. "No, he isn't. His name is Harry Pearce. He works for MI-5."

"He's a spy?" Maren asked incredulously, sitting upright and turning in her chair to face her mother.

"He is. He was sent here to help with an investigation."

"Is that why he came here in the first place? Before I was born?"

That question skirted dangerously close to a wound Ruth was not interested in reopening, but she knew she owed her daughter the truth. Much as Ruth might wish otherwise, Maren was a child no longer, and Ruth could not protect her forever.

"It is," she said carefully. "He was sent here to find someone." _And he failed,_ she added silently. Some instinct to preserve Harry's dignity stayed her tongue, and she did not voice that thought aloud.

"But I saw the book he wrote," Maren protested.

Ruth smiled fondly, reaching out to smooth Maren's errant hair. "I don't know how they managed that," she conceded. "But I can tell you Harry didn't write it."

"He wrote the introduction though, didn't he?" Maren asked shrewdly, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

This was dangerous ground, and Ruth knew it, but she had decided to tell the truth, and she would follow through now, whatever the cost. She could see no other choice, save to lie, and that was one thing she had sworn she would never do. Oh, she had kept her secrets, but she had done her best to never lie to Maren outright, and she wasn't about to start now.

"He did," she allowed.

"You had an affair with him, didn't you?" Maren asked quietly. There was an accusation in her tone, all the fearful mistrust of a girl whose very world had given way beneath her feet, and Ruth could not fault her for that. There had been so much upheaval, in recent days, and she knew her daughter's heart was aching. It grieved her more than she could say, to know how much pain her own actions had caused, but she was determined to make it right.

"I was young," she began, though she paused for a moment as Maren withdrew, her face cold and afraid. "I wasn't seeing your father," Ruth forced herself to carry on. "I wasn't seeing anyone. And he was...you have to understand, Maren, we cared for one another, very much. I know it seems strange, but it's the truth."

"And then what, he just left?" Maren demanded. Somehow she had gone from being cross with Ruth to being outraged on her behalf, and Ruth found herself struggling to keep up, suffering from the emotional equivalent of whiplash. It had always been this way; Maren was a tempestuous girl, a girl who felt things so deeply, and a girl who had never learned to mask those feelings away behind a plastered-on smile.

"He had to, love," Ruth told her, keeping her voice gentle and soft, explaining to Maren the very same thing she had been trying to convince herself of for the last twenty one years. "He had to go back to London. He had a job -" _and a family,_ she thought glumly -"and he was needed there. He didn't belong here."

For a long moment Maren mulled over this, the feverish workings of her mind practically visible in the shining depths of her eyes. "Did he…" she started to ask, faltered, looked away. "Is he…" she tried again, but came no closer to finishing that question than the first. This was it, Ruth knew, the moment when she would have to speak, to reveal the secret she'd kept so long, the secret that had tortured her heart from the moment her daughter was born. This was the moment when she would take the plunge, and risk ruining her relationship with her daughter forever. It had to be done, though, and she knew it. She took a deep breath.

"Does it matter?" Ruth asked her softly. "Your father loved you, Maren. He knew that there was a chance, a good chance, that you weren't his, and he loved you anyway."

Maren looked away, her shoulders tense, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. "We were a family. Harry may be your father, and if you want to know for sure we can find out, but please, _please_ , don't forget how much George loved you."

Beside her Maren had begun to weep, unable to hold her tears at bay any longer, and so Ruth reached out, wrapped her arms around her daughter and drew her close. And to her credit, Maren did not pull away, did not shout or damn her for a betrayer; she just collapsed, caving in on herself while her mother held her close and prayed for forgiveness.

* * *

The moment he was able to speak, Harry demanded to see Ruth. The nurse had taken her time about it, checking all his vital signs and chiding him about how he ought to be resting, but Harry would not be deterred, and insisted until finally she caved and went off to fetch Ruth, muttering under her breath all the while. It seemed to take an eternity for her to appear, but when she finally came walking through the door Harry was so overcome at the sight of her that he very nearly began to weep.

She was by his side in an instant, perched on the edge of his bed; she took his hand in her own, clutching him fiercely while her eyes devoured every inch of his face, searching for the same reassurance her presence brought him.

"How are you feeling?" she whispered, her voice hushed by the unnatural stillness of the hospital room.

"Like I've been hit by a truck," he answered gruffly. Even to his own ears his voice sounded scratchy and raw, but he was capable of speech, and he could feel the warmth of her skin against his own, and he counted himself lucky. The surgery had been a success, though he knew that he had a long road to walk before he recovered full use of his arm. The prospect of all that therapy was grim; the game of spies was one of survival, and the old and the weary and the wounded did not last long.

At his words Ruth let loose a sound that was half a laugh, half a sob, her whole body tense as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. He wanted to tell her to let go, that it was all right, that they were both safe now, but she spoke before he had the chance.

"I was so scared," she breathed. "I don't know what I'd do, if I lost you again."

His heart began to pound, some of her grief communicating itself to him, his need to declare his love, to comfort her rising to the surface. "Ruth-"

Once more she cut him off. "I love you, Harry," she said brokenly. It pained him, to think that she could confess such a thing in such a melancholy tone, but then she leaned across his chest, and kissed him firmly, her free hand cradling his stubbled cheek. Her lips were soft and warm, her kiss passionate, insistent, saying without words everything he had ever meant to her, and he matched her with equal ardor, trying to convince her of the depth of his own affection for her. There was nothing in the world he loved the way he loved this woman, and her declaration had filled him with boundless joy. They were both a bit battered, both a bit bruised, but they were both still here. Together.

"I love you," she breathed when they parted for air.

Harry grinned up at her, still somewhat dazed by the anesthesia, wondering if this were just a dream. Dream or not, it was everything he had every wanted, the words he had waited twenty-one years to hear her say, and he would not let this moment pass him by. He reached up, tangling the fingers of his good hand in her hair, and drew her back to him for another kiss.


	53. Chapter 53

**A/N: The end of this chapter is M rated.**

* * *

 **21 June 1985**

"What do you mean they've found him?" Harry hissed, stepping closer into the shadow of the phone booth. It was late, and no one was about, but still he felt the need to keep his voice low as he spoke to Clive. With just four words - _they've found Patrick Magee -_ Clive had shattered Harry completely, had crippled his heart, disappointed all his hopes. Any chance of vindication, any thoughts of remaining with Ruth just a little while longer vanished in a moment as the harsh truth began to sink in. All of Harry's efforts, all of his pain - physical as well as emotional - all of the deaths and the violence and the constant, never ending struggle, had been for naught. Someone else had found Patrick Magee, and in so doing had stolen Harry's glory, and with it his pride and what little happiness remained to him.

"I mean they've bloody found the man," Clive said impatiently, "and you're due in Dublin first thing tomorrow for your debrief. You'll meet with John Walsh at doughouse two, and when he's done with you it's straight back to London with you. The PM isn't pleased, Harry. Oh, she's pleased someone caught the bastard, but she's disappointed in the results of your operations. _Gross misuse of funds,_ I believe were her exact words."

Harry grumbled about that under his breath, but he knew better than to openly disparage the PM to Clive. Nevermind that it was her idea he go off half-cocked to do a job better suited to MI-6, nevermind that he had never asked for this, nevermind that he had tried his damnedest to deliver results; the politicians were looking for someone to blame. No doubt egos in Whitehall were smarting over the fact that Magee had managed to evade them for almost a year, and Harry would be left to bear the blame for the delay.

 _Is this what it's come to?_ He wondered as he rang off and began to make his way back to the pub, hands shoved deep in his pockets. With one phone call, his entire world had been pulled apart. For so long now he had been James Harrison, chatting to guests at the pub and wandering round the city and drawing ever closer to a beautiful local girl, and with just a few short words from Clive, James Harrison had ceased to be completely. Harry Pearce took his place, sullen and mistrustful, his mind full of details, thinking about the arrangements that would need to be made for his travel back to London, the disbursement of his agents in Galway, the conversation he would have to have with his wife when he returned home.

Abruptly Harry came to a stop on the pavement, Jane's face swimming before his eyes. He reached up and rubbed his hands over his weary face, silently berating himself for all his many misdeeds. How could he have done this to her, again? How could he have thought, even for a moment, that he could risk his marriage, his family, for the sake of a slip of a girl he knew he'd eventually have to abandon?

 _You love her,_ his heart whispered, but Harry Pearce as a rule did not listen to his heart. He forced himself to move again, his feet carrying him along without any direction from his overwrought mind. Yes, he loved Ruth, loved her with everything he had, but he had said his vows to _Jane,_ and it was Jane who bore his children, Jane who raised them, Jane who kept him together when he felt as if everything else in his world were falling apart. She had been the one constant in his life, by his side since their days at university, helping him through when his mother died, while he was at Sandurst, while he was in the army. Jane had traveled Europe with him, as he bounced from one post to another, and the quiet moments they had shared, her gentle teasing, the softness of her hands had kept him grounded, had reminded him who he was. Oh, she had been cold and distant in the days before he departed for Galway, and no doubt his six month absence would not have endeared him to her, but she was still his _wife._ And he had gone and given his heart to another.

 _You're going home,_ he told himself firmly as he reached the pub, making his way up the stairs and down the corridor to his room. _You're going to be her husband, again, and you're going to take this chance to be a better father to your children. They'll hardly recognize you, you've been gone so long. You must do better, for them._

His mind was spinning, as he stepped into his room, James Harrison and Harry Pearce having a fierce, silent struggle as the warring halves of his heart battled for supremacy, measuring his love for Ruth, this girl who seemed to understand him, against his feelings for Jane, this woman who had been by his side for so many years, who had seen him at his best and at his worst and stayed with him regardless. How could a six month affair possibly matter more to him than his eight year marriage?

 _Jane's never looked at you the way Ruth does, you've never trusted her the way you trust Ruth._

It was no use, each way he turned he was met with confusion and obfuscation, and he could see no way out. Not that it mattered. He had his orders, and he would follow them, and damn his divided heart.

"James?" a sleepy voice called out in the darkness, shaking him at once from his musings. He'd been stood in the doorway, toeing off his shoes and muttering to himself, completely oblivious to the lump in the middle of his bed, but now that she had spoken the shadows resolved themselves, and there she was, his Ruth, lovely and soft from sleep, her head resting against his pillows, her eyes sparkling at him in the dim glow of the street lamps streaming in through blinds.

 _God forgive me,_ Harry thought as he looked at her, his heart sinking in his chest like a stone. Somehow he had forgotten that she was meant to meet him tonight, but in a way her presence was a mercy; he would be spared now the agony of trying to find her before daylight, the indignity of leaving her with no more than a note. This way he could tell her, face to face, that he was leaving, could break it to her gently, courteously, rather than cutting and running like a coward.

"It's all right, Ruth," he told her softly, the brilliant smile she gave him cutting him like a thousand tiny knives.

 _Knives._

Knives made him think of Connor Kelly, the bastard, and the tender wound Harry still bore on his belly. Thanks to Ruth, Connor had been snatched up immediately in the aftermath of the stabbing, and word had just come through that after his arrest he had been shipped back to Belfast, where he was wanted on charges of murder. Most likely the bastard would spend the rest of his days in prison, and his sons had been subdued in the days following his extradition; Harry had not seen hide nor hair of Ryan Kelly for over a week now. At least that one matter was settled, Harry thought as he unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor; if he had to leave Ruth, at least he could rest easy knowing that the Kellys no longer posed a threat to her. With the paterfamilias out of action, surely the rest of their machinations would grind to a halt; at the very least, they'd be looking over their shoulders, knowing that that garda were suspicious of them now. He might not have captured Patrick Magee, but he had ensured Ruth's safety, and he knew which victory mattered more to him.

By the time he reached the bed he was naked save for his trunks, and he slid beneath the duvet, his arms wrapping around Ruth reflexively, drawing her close to him, her head resting on his chest, the warm, earthy scent of her hair filling his nostrils and calming him even as it saddened him. She was mindful of his wound, careful not to touch it or put pressure on his stomach in any way, even as she nestled closer to him. This was to be his last night with her; he knew that once he left, he'd never see her again. Never see her, never hold her, never hear her sweet voice singing as she bustled around the room, never feel the warmth of her kiss or the joy she brought him ever again. Ruth had lit a fire in his heart, had awakened a piece of his soul he'd long since forgotten, and now she was to be taken from him, relegated to no more than a memory, that merry blaze extinguished by the inexorable progress of time and duty.

"I have to tell you," he murmured, the words feeling like so much gravel in his mouth, his resolve wavering as Ruth turned in his arms and pressed soft kisses against his neck, her skin warm and soft against his own. He realized as he held her that she was naked, as well, had no doubt meant to surprise him, and he could not stop his body reacting to the heat of her even as the guilt washed over him in waves. How could he have done this to her, strung her along, allowed her to care so much for him when he knew that this was the inevitable end?

 _Because you love her._

"Tell me what?" she prompted when his voice failed him.

He took a deep breath, and spoke those damning words. "Patrick Magee was found in Glasgow today. I'm due back in London tomorrow."

The effect of his pronouncement on Ruth was immediate. She sat bolt upright, nearly cracking her head against his chin in the process, tugging the duvet up to cover her nakedness as she slid away from him and stared at him, her eyes wide and pleading.

"Tomorrow?" She breathed incredulously. Harry's heart was breaking in half, as he watched her, as the emotions danced across her face, her hands trembling where they worried with the edge of the duvet. He could practically feel the feverish twistings and turnings of her mind; no doubt she was reminding herself, even in the midst of her shock, that this was their inevitable fate, that this was the reason she had never told him that she loved him.

"The service doesn't believe in dawdling," Harry said wryly, but before he could speak again she covered her mouth with her hand and all but vaulted from the bed, racing across to the en suite where she was suddenly, violently, rather noisily ill. He did not hesitate; he had seen things more gruesome than this over the course of his life as a spy, and Ruth needed him. As quickly as he could he rose from the bed, stopping just long enough to wet a handtowel before joining her on the floor. With gentle hands he reached out and brushed her hair back over her shoulder, and when she was done he carefully washed her face, one of his hands resting reassuringly on her back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered brokenly when she'd got herself back under control. She'd drawn her knees up to her chest, and Harry was suddenly struck by how small she was, how young, how obviously frightened, her face drained and pale, her radiant eyes dimmed by sorrow. "I don't know what came over me."

"It's a shock," he said, trying to sound comforting, though in truth he knew there was nothing he could say to ease the pain of the moment. "I was surprised, myself. It's me who should be sorry, Ruth. I never should have taken you to bed. I never should have let you-"

Ruth reached out and stilled the flood of words from his lips with the gentle brush of her fingertips. "You've nothing to be sorry for," she told him firmly. "I knew what I signed on for, James. You were always going to leave me. You don't belong here."

With all the trust, all the sincerity of a child she turned in his embrace, worming her way into the circle of his arms, his legs rising up to cradle her close as her arms wound round his neck and she buried her face in his chest, breathing deeply as their hearts slowed and began to beat in time to one another. For long moments he simply held her, treasuring her nearness, the understanding she gave him so freely, that compassion he felt he had no right to claim. What had he done, that such a woman might love him, might forgive him his sins and bless him with her touch?

"I want to stay, Ruth," he whispered in the darkness. "You've no idea how much."

She made a soft, disgruntled sound, pressing a kiss against his chest before leaning back to look him in the eye. "You can't, though," she told him. "Don't torture yourself. You'll leave in the morning. You have no other choice."

 _I have every choice,_ he thought sadly. _And I choose my duty. To my family, and to the realm. God help me, but I have chosen._

He just smiled at her, a weak, pitiful smile, before he rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. She stepped away, rinsing her mouth at the sink before reaching out to take his hand in her own. Those hands, so small, so delicate; they cradled his heart, and he knew he must surely leave it with her when he departed.

"Come on, then, Mr. Harrison," Ruth told him softly. "Let's go to bed."

He stared at her for a moment in wonder, in awe, struck dumb by her strength, her grace, her beauty. She understood that his choice had been made, that he was abandoning her, and even still, she was offering herself to him. _One last time._

Harry nodded, and followed her to bed.

* * *

 **22 June 1985**

Before the sun rose, Ruth was woken by the fluttering touch of James's fingers, forging a path from her collarbone down over the rise of her breasts, along the valley between her ribs, teasing round her navel before brushing through the raspy curls at her center. It was the most delightful wake up call she could have imagined, her body arching reflexively as his fingers played over her soft folds, drawing a gasp from her throat. In her half-waking state every touch was electric, the moment magnified a thousand-fold, her every sense slowly reviving, realizing how completely he surrounded her. His arms were wrapped around her, his breath hot on the back of her neck, his hardness pressing insistently against the rise of her buttocks. He'd had her three times this night already, but it would appear that his yearning for her had been not been sated, nor hers for him. In moments she was wet and panting his name, the fingers of his right hand kneading her breast even as the fingers of his left delved deep into the cleft between her legs.

"Oh, _fuck,"_ she whimpered as he thrust against her, hard, fast, unrelenting, filling her up, his thumb rubbing insistently against her clit. It had never quite been like this before, this overwhelming, this desperate; there was a dreamlike quality to the moment that left her reeling. She knew what he was doing, imprinting himself upon her, as if the marks he'd left on her breast, on her neck, on the inside of her thigh weren't enough. And though a part of her was devastated to think that this was it, that this was the final time she would hold him, she was determined to enjoy every second of it.

And James seemed equally determined; with one final thrust of his hand he brought her to trembling, soul-stealing release, her cries muffled as she turned her head and pressed her mouth hard against the straining muscles of his arm. _I love you,_ she thought, tears welling up in her eyes, unable to bear the sheer magnitude of her emotions, but she did not speak, would not speak; even in her orgasm-induced delirium, she knew no good would come of those words. Instead she focused on trying to breathe, and the very instant she regained feeling in her extremities she turned in his arms, her mouth fastening hard against his own, his lips soft and warm where they met, his taste filling her senses as she plunged her tongue into his mouth.

Perhaps he understood what she could not say, perhaps he had correctly interpreted the passion of her kiss; he rolled her beneath him in an instant, and her hands gravitated to his hardness, feeling the heat of him pulsing against her palm.

There were so many things she wanted to do, so much more she wanted to experience with this man; as she had fallen asleep, only a few hours before, she had promised herself she would wake him with her lips wrapped around his cock, would take him in her mouth and hear him moan, but he had beaten her to the punch, and she could not bring herself to stop now. She wanted him with a ferocity that frightened her, and she felt herself completely swept away by the furious waves of her desire.

With her hands wrapped firmly around him she guided him into her, felt his body shudder above her, swallowed the deep, nearly animal sound of his moans as he plunged into her wet heat. He sheathed himself inside her in one long thrust, filling her completely, stretching her deliciously until she could do no more than mewl her pleasure. He was magnificent, her James, in every way, not just by virtue of his lean muscle or his thick cock but by the resilience of his spirit, the certainty of his conscious, the beauty of his mind that she had grown to love so well. He was everything to her, and he was leaving.

"Ruth," he breathed, his face so close to her that she could feel the wash of his words across her cheek. "Look at me."

She wrenched her eyes open, whimpering slightly as he withdrew until only the tip of his hardness remained inside her. His eyes held her, claimed her, branded her for his own; they were warm and honey-dark, pupils wide with lust and longing, and in them she saw reflected her own grief, her own joy, her own need.

"I love you," he breathed, but before she could speak he thrust back into her, hard, and her eyes flew shut, her fingernails breaking his skin as she clung to him. He did not pound into her, did not fuck her quickly; he moved firm, and slow, and strong, stoking the fires of desire that threatened to engulf her, the feverish workings of her mind grinding to a halt beneath the onslaught. She clung to him, her hips rising to meet him with each long, languorous thrust. Try though she might she could not keep her eyes open, could not focus on the blistering intensity of his face, but this did not seem to bother him; he ducked his head and caught her nipple with his mouth, worrying it between his lips even as he continued to thrust within her to the rhythm of a song only he could hear.

They had never moved together quite like this, without desperation, without laughter, without clumsy fumbling or the scrape of teeth against skin. This was not fucking, this was a benediction, and Ruth knew she had never felt its like before. This was love, their bodies working together, building it up, constructing it piece by piece. He covered her like a blanket, and she cradled him between her legs, her thighs locked tight around his waist, her inner walls clutching him, drawing him in deeper and deeper with every thrust.

"Don't stop," she breathed as with each move of his body he brought her nearer and nearer to the peak of bliss. He followed her orders, neither stopping nor slowing, but continuing on, smooth and steady and exquisite. With every second that passed he filled her, shaped her to fit him so that no other would ever usurp the place he'd claimed in her heart. When at last she came the sensation nearly tore her apart, so great was it, stealing the breath from her lungs, her heart stuttering and almost stopping altogether before euphoria broke over her in waves. A whimper escaped her lips, and then she began to weep, unable to keep the tears at bay a moment longer, but James continued to move, pushing her through her release and elevating her still further, wiping the tears from her cheeks with his lips.

"I love you," he whispered again.

She could make no sound, but simply clung to him, feeling his pace begin to increase as he answered the undeniable call of his own body. Ruth locked her ankles together at the small of his back, tightening her inner muscles around him that much further, and a strangled groan escaped his lips.

"Let go," she breathed, running her fingers through his sweat-slicked curls, reaching up to catch the lobe of his ear between his teeth.

He gave into her insistence, thrusting harder, and faster, the tempo of their dance shifting, the desperation, the hunger, the fear they had so far managed to keep at bay spurring him on. Though she knew it was foolish, knew it was rash, she did not want him to part from her, wanted to feel the rush of his release inside her, though he had so far been careful, and only made that mistake a time or two before. She held him fast, and he made no effort to disentangle himself from her.

Again he plunged inside her, her whole body trembling with want, having never come down from her previous high but with his help chasing a second, even greater peak. He shifted slightly, reaching between them to stroke the little nub at her center and lights exploded behind her eyes, a single, shattering cry escaping her as the last vestiges of her restraint detonated into nothingness. The siren song of her release was too much for him, this time, and with one last stupendous thrust he capitulated, filling her even as he groaned her name.

They collapsed against the pillows in a sweaty heap, gasping and spent, and she held him close, thinking only how much she loved him, and how much she could not bear to let him go. Let him go she must, however, and she was determined to be strong for him. He was brave and good and kind, and Ruth would have to be those things, too, would let him go in peace, as she always knew she must. His place was in London, and she knew she could not keep him to herself a moment longer.

* * *

Harry berated himself silently for his total lack of control as he puttered around the room, packing up his things. Over the course of their affair he had been careful, and had only slipped up and come inside her perhaps three or four times. It was a dangerous thing to be doing, but in the moment he could no more have withdrawn from her than he could have ripped the beating heart from his chest. And Ruth did not seem to mind; if anything, he felt she had encouraged him. Still, though, it was a foolish thing to be doing.

 _We've been lucky so far,_ he reminded himself half-heartedly, stealing a glance at her.

She was reclining on the bed, gloriously naked, watching him with sorrow in her eyes. Before this moment he had expected tears, and pleading, and accusations, but Ruth had surprised him. She had been gentle, playful, almost, in the aftermath of their rather earth-shattering love making. She had made no attempt at deterring him from his chosen path, and had from her position reclining against the duvet even directed him towards a wayward sock, and reminded him to fetch his toothbrush from the en suite.

"Is that everything?" she asked him as he closed his holdall.

Six months he had spent in this city; he'd been beaten and stabbed, had seen one man murdered and killed another, had run for his life and shagged this girl until he couldn't feel his toes, and he had naught to show for it. There were no knickknacks in his bag, no photographs, nothing to take with him save for a notebook full of musings and a lifetime worth of memories. There should have been more, he thought; surely, having experienced something as momentous as the love he bore for Ruth he ought to have some tangible piece of her to cling to, but he had nothing.

"I think so," he answered, his voice forlorn and weary even to his own ears.

With her hand outstretched she beckoned him to her, and he came unresisting, taking her hand in his own.

"You have to leave, James," she told him softly.

"I know," he answered, his eyes devouring her face, pleading with a god he did not believe in, begging for just one more night with her.

"It's for the best," she told him. Artfully she rose up onto her knees, pressing a kiss against his chest before looking up at him. She was so _close,_ her face inches from his own, and yet he could feel her slipping away.

"Ruth-" he breathed, his heart constricting at the sight of her.

"Go back to your wife, Englishman," she told him gently. She reached up and kissed him once, a soft, lingering kiss, and then ran her fingers through his hair, a melancholy little smile dancing across her lips. "Forget you ever knew my name."

"I never will," he answered.

She was an angel, a temptress, a vixen, a goddess, naked and resplendent before him, and the pain of leaving her manifested itself as a physical ache in his chest. He could not bear it; he caught her face in his hands and kissed her, hard, drinking her in, one last time.

"Go," she breathed against his lips, and with that one word she withdrew, folding herself back in amongst the tangled ruins of the bedsheets.

"Good-bye, Ruth," he said, squaring his shoulders. This was his moment; she had given him her blessing to depart, and if he lingered a second longer he would never be able to leave her side. And she knew it as well as he, knew that he must simply rip the plaster from the wound, quickly; drawing it out would only make things worse.

"Good-bye, James," she answered him, the slight hitch in her voice the only indication of the turmoil he knew she was feeling.

With one last lingering glance he steeled himself, and departed into the stillness of the early morning, leaving the tattered remnants of his heart behind him.


	54. Chapter 54

**A/N: All right folks, we made it! Only one more chapter to go after this. I think. Many thanks for sticking with it!**

* * *

 **1 September 2006**

It was Friday evening, and a band was playing merrily in the corner of the pub. Though it was well past midnight they carried on, keeping time to the stomping of the fiddle player's feet, and around them the guests laughed and sang and drank more whiskey than was wise, an air of festivity filling room, though no one could say exactly why. Perhaps it was enough, to be celebrating the end of another week, a fine day at the end of summer, a smile, a dance, a kiss. Perhaps it was enough simply to be.

Connor was watching her, while she made her rounds, a tray of drinks held aloft, spinning deftly out of the way of drunken customers, laughing at a joke, humming along with the song spilling out of the corner. She could feel his eyes upon her with every step she took, and when she caught his eye, she smiled. He was a sweet boy, and his obvious attention was no longer cause for concern; after his uncle's death, his father had packed up and left town, and Connor had remained behind, moving into a little flat not far from the pub. In the weeks since that fateful night when Maren's whole world had seem to shatter at her feet, Connor had been a godsend to her. Though his own heart was hurting, to learn the depths of his family's corruption, he was determined to make it right. In the absence of proper leadership he had taken on more responsibilities at the docks, and by all accounts his performance so far had been more than satisfactory. Maren was so proud of him she sometimes felt she might burst from sheer exuberance alone; she had always known he had it in him, to be brave and strong and kind, and now, freed from his father's shadow, he finally had the chance to prove it.

The darkness of those days, the suspicion, the doubt, the grief, had faded like the last of the summer heat, slowly leaching away as her life reverted to a more desultory pace. She worked in the pub, she spent time with Connor, she drank tea with her mother, and all the rest of it seemed to have faded into memory, becoming no more than the lingering tension of a nightmare, banished in the daylight and whispering at her in the darkness. Maren chose to ignore it, however. She chose to ignore the sight of her mother covered in blood, the whispered conversation in the hospital when everything she'd ever thought to be true had been yanked away from her in an instant, replaced with a truth more unseemly, more disturbing than she had ever imagined. At first, she had been horrified, to think that the hulking Mr. Harrison might be her father, that her mother could have carried on a dalliance with that man, but now that she'd had the opportunity to mull things over, she'd come to realize how immature, how ungrateful her initial response had been.

"Dance with me," Connor murmured, reaching out to catch her by the waist when she drew near.

Reflexively Maren's eyes flickered over to her mother, ensconced behind the bar. Ruth was radiant tonight, laughing and chatting and shining in a way Maren had not seen her since before her father - George's - death. It was a comforting sight; perhaps Maren's heart wasn't the only one on the mend. Ruth had heard Connor's question, and when she saw Maren's questioning stare, she smiled.

"Go on, love," she said, reaching out to relieve Maren of the tray she carried.

Maren began to offer her thanks in response, but then Connor whisked her away, out onto the stretch of floor that had been dedicated to dancing. They slid together, her arms looping round his neck while his own cradled her gently, and she sighed in bliss as they swayed together. This song was more sedate than the others had been, and Maren was thankful for it, thankful for the chance to slow down, to breathe, to draw comfort from Connor's nearness.

It was Connor who had made her realize how irrational she'd been, with regards to Mr. Harrison - or Harry Pearce, as his real name had been revealed. She'd been lying in Connor's bed late one night, her head pillowed on his chest, his hands running gently over her hair, when he pointed out the obvious.

"They love each other, _a chuisle._ Remember how it was for us, before? How it seemed like we couldn't be together, how unfair it was? It was the same for them. We don't choose who we love."

Those words had stunned Maren; she been rather embarrassed that the insight he'd stumbled across so easily had evaded her for weeks. It had all seemed so obvious lying there in his arms, as all the pieces of the puzzle slotted into place, and for the first time, she accepted that the only crime her mother had committed was that of being human, of falling prey to that great unstoppable force; _love._ In fact, the more Maren dwelt on the circumstances of her birth and her life up to the moment Harry Pearce arrived in July, the more she came to see that her mother had made the best of her situation, had worked so hard to make things _right,_ and in so doing had given Maren the best possible life she could have hoped for. Now, when Maren thought of Harry and the fact that he might be her father, she found she was not cross, but instead rather curious, wondering who he was, wondering what the future might hold for all of them, her inquisitiveness only somewhat marred by sorrow at the thought of the many years he and Ruth had spent apart. Now, when she thought of George, she felt only love, thinking fondly of the time they'd spent together, though that love was tinged with regret at the violent way his life had ended, the thought that he had spent so many years loving a woman whose heart belonged to another. It was a difficult thing, making sense of those warring emotions, but Maren was muddling through.

She shifted slightly and rested her head on Connor's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne and closing her eyes for a moment, clearing her mind of everything save him, and the joy he made her feel.

* * *

The sight of Maren and Connor dancing together tugged at Ruth's heartstrings; she'd caught wind of a rumor that Connor was thinking of proposing, and knowing her daughter, she imagined that should he ever find the courage to ask, there would only be one inevitable answer. He was a nice lad, hardworking, diligent, courteous, and she could not think of a better match for her daughter, but still, she did not care much for the idea of Maren settling down so young. There was a great big world out there, a world Ruth herself had only ever dreamed about, and she wanted more for Maren than marriage and a life spent in the pub. That was Ruth's lot in life; Maren deserved more.

Still, though, it wasn't Ruth's decision to make. She had done no meddling in her daughter's affairs, beyond one painfully awkward conversation about birth control. They would do what they would do; Maren was a child no longer, and her life was hers to make of it what she would. Oh, Ruth would offer her advice, the sage counsel gleaned from a lifetime of mistakes, but in the end, it was up to Maren now. And Connor was a nice lad.

 _Nicer than Harry,_ she mused with a rueful little smile, turning her attentions away from her daughter and back to her customers. He was an irascible old bugger, her Harry, but Ruth loved him anyway. After the shooting he'd been three days in hospital, three days when Ruth had been by his side every moment, calming his nerves and talking about their future. With Sean Kelly dead and Ryan Kelly vanished into the ether, Ruth's life had returned to an even keel, the clouds of calamity that had hung over her head finally clearing for the first time since she was a girl. Those were heady days, when the love she felt for him overwhelmed everything else, when in her relief and her gratitude she would gladly have given him anything he asked.

And he had asked, there in the darkness of his hospital room late one night, and Ruth had answered, flinging her arms round his neck and kissing him soundly. That night was burned in her memory, and she carried it like a torch in her heart, warming her during the long, cold nights she'd spent alone in the weeks since. He had to go back; she had known from the start that he would have to leave her again, that he could not simply abandon his life in London. What made this parting different from the one they'd shared two decades before was at once simple and profound; what she had now, that she did not have then, was _hope_.

When Harry had left her the first time, she knew it was duty, to his wife and to his country, that called him home. He had been faced with choice and he had chosen, chosen to do his job, no matter the damage to his family, to his heart. Though his marriage had ended, his duty remained, and he had spent the intervening years dedicating himself to the service. She could not fault him for it; she loved him for his honor, for his loyalty, his stubborn dedication, despite the fact that those were the very same traits that had kept them apart for so very long.

Things were different now, she knew. He was older and wiser, sadder and weary, and the time had come for a younger man to take up his post, for Harry to spend what time remained to him in service to no one but himself. _I'll come back for you,_ he had whispered against her lips when they parted in July, and it was those words that kept her going, kept her smiling, that helped her to sleep in the bed that seemed much too big for her, without him in it.

Harry was coming back.

* * *

"Are you ever going to tell me what happened over there?" Adam asked him quietly as they lingered over pints of lager in The George. The rest of the team had long since departed, shaking Harry's hand and wishing him the best, but Adam remained, neither of them quite ready to draw a line underneath their tumultuous acquaintance, to go their separate ways never to see or hear from one another again. Their parting would be momentous for the both of them, the beginning of new chapters in each of their lives, and so they put it off, just a little while longer, savoring the last few minutes of life as they had known it.

Harry shook his head. "The less you know, the better," he grumbled.

The moment he'd returned to London, his arm in a sling and his longing for Ruth settled like a physical ache in his chest, he'd gone straight to the HS and offered his resignation, though he had agreed to stay on for a few weeks to get his affairs in order. He had months of therapy ahead of him, to regain full use of his arm, and the in-house doctor had been grumbling about his need for a knee replacement; his battered body had had enough of this job, and the time had come for him to hand the reins over to someone younger, someone more dedicated than himself. For those few precious days he had spent in Galway had awakened within him in a need that he had denied for twenty long years, a need that would no longer be pushed to the side while he trudged on in the name of duty. The time had come, he knew, for him to put his heart above the realm.

Adam would be taking over for him now, assuming the mantle of Section Head; he was young for the position, but experienced, and his team not only respected him, but loved him in a way. That would serve him well, Harry knew, and Harry wished him only the best. It was no longer his place, to worry about the fate of the team; Ireland was calling Harry's name. When he glanced over at the bar he could almost see Ruth standing behind it, could almost hear her gentle voice echoing back to him across the many miles that separated them; _when the road it is tiresome and hard to tread, and the lights of their cities blind you, Oh turn a stor to Erin's shore, and the one that you leave behind you._

He had told no one in London about her, about the woman who had at last drawn him away from his post, the woman who had absconded with his heart. As far as he was concerned, it was no one's business but his own why he was leaving, and the fewer people who knew about her, the fewer people who might be inclined to follow him, to take the love he felt for her and use it for nefarious purposes, the better. She was his secret, his most fervent desire, and in a matter of hours, she would be in his arms once more.

"It must have been something spectacular," Adam mused, "to make you retire and sell your house."

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. _Ever the spook,_ he thought, watching Adam in the dim light. For a moment he was struck by how very much Adam reminded him of himself at that age, all blonde hair and lean muscle, his family decimated by grief, still soldiering on. Harry had found his happy ending; he could only hope that Adam would find the same, one day.

Harry had in fact put his house on the market, and an offer had come through. He'd signed the papers that very day, handing over the keys to a nice young couple before heading out to The George for his farewell do. His furniture had been sold, and he'd had a rather tense dinner with his daughter, explaining that he was leaving London behind, but that he intended to come back to visit her, and she was welcome to visit him in Ireland whenever she liked. To say that she had been stunned would have been to make a dramatic understatement; she had looked at him as if he'd grown a second head, as if she'd never truly seen him before. And he hadn't even told her about Ruth, or Maren, or any of the rest of it; that would come in time, he told himself. Best to stick to one shocking revelation at a time.

"That's a good word for it," he murmured to appease Adam, his thoughts drifting once more to Ruth. Yes, she was spectacular, and he was itching to see her again. He'd had enough of darkness and deceit; the time had come for him to rest in the arms of the woman he loved.

"Well, best of luck to you," Adam said, throwing back the last of his drink and sliding to his feet. He offered Harry his hand, and they shook, each lost in their own thoughts.

"And to you," Harry answered. "Ring me, if you need me."

Adam gave him a look that seemed to say _and what are the chances of that, do you think?_ Harry smiled ruefully, and Adam gave him a quick nod before waltzing out off into the night.

With that he was left alone, staring around at the familiar sights and sounds of The George, reminiscing, just for a moment, about all the many nights he had spent there, the parties and the wakes and the quiet conversations he had enjoyed in this place. His mind drifted back, thinking of all the agents he had known, trying to ignore the nasty ends that had befallen so many of them. So much grief, so much pain; through it all he had endured, and now he was going to rest.

" _Good-bye,"_ Harry murmured, not to Adam, who had long since left his side, but to the life he had known, to this place that had always been there for him, even in his darkest hours. And then, quiet as a shadow, he departed.


	55. Chapter 55

**A/N: The end of this chapter is M rated.**

* * *

 _And I ask you now, tell me what would you do_

 _If her hair was black and her eyes were blue_

 _I've traveled around, I've been all over this world_

 _Boys I ain't never seen nothin' like a Galway girl_

 _-Steve Earle/Galway Girl_

* * *

 **2 September 2006**

For Ruth, Saturday had been interminable, long hours passing slowly, the gentle motion of the second hand on the clock seeming almost to move backwards, dawdling along, delaying her impending reunion with Harry and leaving her frustrated, distressed, and more impatient than she could ever remember being in her life. It was foolish, she knew, to be so restless, so desperate for the sight of him when he had promised that he was coming back to her for good, that this night would be the first of thousands more to come, that she would spend so much time with him in the coming days that she might well grow tired of his company - though she rather doubted it. No matter how she tried to reassure herself, she could not calm the expectant fluttering of her heart in her chest each time a new customer walked through the door, could not quell the disappointment that filled her each time she gazed upon a new face, and found that it was not Harry's. It had been many years since she'd had something to look forward to as much as she was anticipating Harry's return, and the eagerness, the delight that filled her at the very thought was a welcome change from the dark suspicions that had so clouded her heart in recent months.

There was a small, frightened part of her that remained concerned that she and Harry had been rash in declaring their love for one another, that his decision to retire and leave London behind had been made in the heat of the moment, that he would come to regret abandoning his whole life for her sake. They had not properly lived together, and over the last twenty-one years they had only spent a bare few days in one another's company, but that anxious voice was mollified somewhat by the daily phone conversations they had enjoyed in his absence, the emails she had sent him containing photographs of her daily life, the terse but sincere text messages she had received when his work kept him away from her. Despite his physical absence he had remained with her throughout his exile, this time, and the closeness that had grown up out of those communications allayed her nerves. It was difficult to give into fear, when she had Harry's voice whispering in her ear, telling her of all the things he longed do once they were properly together again.

It was nice, in a way, the time they had spent apart, the time he had spent wooing her, reminding her with his words and fervent whispers of the depth of his feelings for her. Surely, she told herself, if he were to grow tired of her, if he were to regret his decision, he would have done so already, would have let her down gently and continued on in his own preferred fashion without her. He hadn't, though; he had been ardent in his declaration of his intentions, had sold his house, had rung her the night before from his hotel in London, telling her of the events of his day and his planned itinerary for his journey to Galway. He was coming back to her. At last.

Though he had explained how he planned to execute his journey he had been vague about the time of his arrival, wanting it to be a surprise, wanting to leave Ruth in suspense, though he had acknowledged her deeply held distaste for shock and clarified the day, so that she would not spend weeks on end looking eagerly for him like a dog awaiting the return of a beloved human. For that at least Ruth was thankful.

The sun slowly sank beyond the horizon, and Ruth was distracted from her anticipation by the rush of weekend customers. A different band was playing tonight, mercifully less raucous than the bunch who had occupied the corner of the pub on Friday evening, and the music helped to calm her nerves, to keep her smiling while she poured drinks and chatted to guests at the bar. As ever, Maren was working the floor, her Connor and his lads occupying a booth on the far wall where they shouted and laughed in good-natured revelry. It was, Ruth decided as she took in the scene, everything she had ever hoped for. She was doing good trade, her daughter was happy, there was music and singing and good cheer, and there was not a single brawl disturbing her tables or dark word muttered in her hearing. Having spent so much of her life within these walls Ruth had come to love this place, and she was grateful that Harry understood, that he loved it as well, that he was not planning to take it from her. The pub was the physical manifestation of her every dream, lovingly restored to its original splendor, free from the dark cloud that had hung over it while David was in residence and the elder Connor Kelly had stalked along the floor, leaving devastation in his wake. Everything was as it should be, and Harry was coming back to her. Ruth was, in that moment, nothing short of overjoyed.

And so it was that Harry came to her at last, when she was at the height of her delight, when the kitchen staff had retired for the evening and all that remained was the steady flood of whiskey that would carry her customers through Saturday night into the early hours of Sunday morning.

* * *

Maren was making her way across the floor, a tray of drinks held aloft out of reach of her drunken customers, when she spotted him in the doorway. Harry Pearce, plain as day, dressed for once in jeans, though he still wore a starched white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. He was carrying a small black holdall, his expression as he watched Ruth at work behind the bar best described as lovestruck. For a moment Maren took him in, his face for once relaxed, his eyes warm and fixated on Ruth. _This man might be my father,_ Maren thought as she gazed at him. This man who had killed Sean Kelly, albeit in defense of her mother, this man with his broad shoulders and his gruff voice, this man who was hardly more than a stranger to her. Tonight she found the thought did not bother her so very much; there was something gentle about him, about the look on his face, and the curiosity she had harbored for him, the desire she felt to know him better, to make a place for him in her life came back to the forefront. This man might well be her father, and she was looking forward to the opportunity to spend some time in his company.

 _Not tonight, though,_ she thought with a little smile as she made her way over to him. Unbeknownst to her mother she had already made arrangements to spend the evening with Connor in his flat, and had called in an extra waitress, certain that the moment Harry arrived he would want to whisk Ruth away. He was welcome to it, as far as Maren was concerned, but she would prefer not to bear witness to their reunion.

"Welcome back," she said softly as she reached him.

Those warm eyes fell upon her, delight and trepidation swirling in their depths. _He knows,_ Maren realized as they greeted one another warily; he knew the connection that might exist between them, and if the sincerity of his voice was anything to go by, he was as determined to get know her as she was to grow closer to him.

"It's good to be back," he told her, his eyes drifting once more to Ruth.

With a rueful little smile Maren reached out and relieved him of his bag. "I'll put this behind the bar for you," she told him. "Go on." If her hands had not been full she would have reached out and given him a playful nudge, but her words seemed to do the trick, galvanizing him into action. His ears turned a delightful shade of pink, and he muttered something unintelligible as he squared his shoulders and made his way across the room.

Ruth had spotted him, Maren saw. She came out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on the half-apron tied around her waist, her eyes wide and hopeful. It only took a moment for them to reach one another, and then Ruth was enveloped in his arms, nestling in close against him. Maren turned away, feeling a desire to give them privacy that was a bit absurd, really, considering how many other people were in the pub this evening. She ducked behind the bar, carefully tucking Harry's bag out of the way and taking over her mother's duties.

Across the room the band began to play another song; Maren's head jerked up at the sound of it, her eyes landing on her mother and Harry at once.

" _Tonight you're mine, completely,"_ the singer crooned. As Maren watched, Harry looped one arm around Ruth's waist, whispered something in her ear, and led her over to join the other dancers. As the song played they began to move, twirling slowly, blind to everything save one another.

" _You give your love so sweetly…"_

Though she had known it, though Connor's words had forced her to acknowledge it, it was not until that very moment that the truth finally hit home for Maren; as she watched them dancing, watched her mother gazing up at Harry in wonder, listened to the words of that song pouring out of the singer in corner, she finally saw what she had so long suspected. They loved one another, Harry and Ruth, and here they were, together.

" _Will you still love me tomorrow?"_

* * *

They went stumbling through the front door together, drunk on kisses and blinded by need. This thing between them, so long kept secret, so long acknowledged in the darkness and denied in the light of day, would no longer be satisfied with glances and silent yearning. He was everywhere, surrounding her, his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her bum, his hardness pressed insistently against her hip. The dance they had begun in the pub had carried them out into the starlit night and across the path to her home, to the little house she hoped to share with him for many years to come, and all sense of reason and propriety abandoned Ruth at once. She wanted nothing more than to lead him up the stairs, to strip him bare, to tangle her limbs with his against her soft cotton sheets and lose herself to the overwhelming heat of him.

It seemed that Harry was of the same mind, though he halted their progress for a moment there in the entryway, pushing her back against the wooden door and kissing her ardently, passionately, unreservedly. In response to the ceaseless ravagings of his mouth Ruth let loose a breathy moan and lifted herself onto her tiptoes, desperate to be closer to him, to feel his hardness nestling between her thighs. Almost without realizing it she locked her right leg around his waist; with his good hand clenched tight against her bum and using the door for leverage Harry lifted her, her arms wrapping around his neck as she secured her legs around him, grinding down against him, already wet and panting for him. The movement caused her skirt to bunch around her waist, her thighs bare and begging for his attention; the fingers of his left hand dug into her flesh, imprinting himself upon her as he kissed her that much harder, swallowing her moans and breathing new life into her with each passing second. She could feel him throbbing there against her, but she knew his shoulder was still healing, knew that as much as he might long to he could not take her there against the door.

Regretfully she tore her mouth from his, gasping for a moment before she leaned in and dragged her tongue up the column of his throat, savoring the salty taste of his skin before catching the lobe of his ear between her teeth. "Take me upstairs, Harry," she breathed.

He all but growled in response, kneading her bum one final time before releasing her, stepping back so that her feet could drop to the floor, her legs shaking so badly with pent-up desire that for a moment she feared they would not hold her. But then he was kissing her again, and they continued their stumbling progress, up the stairs and down the hall to her little bedroom.

The sheets on the bed were clean and the curtains were drawn back, filling the room with the silvery glow of moonlight, casting an ethereal air over everything in sight. They stopped by the bed, entangled and enraptured, and Harry paused for a moment, his hands spanning her waist, looking down on her in wonder.

"Am I really here, Ruth?" he asked her softly.

Ruth reached up, beginning to unbutton his shirt, pressing her lips against his chest as his skin was revealed to her. "You are," she told him in between tender kisses, dragging her lips down his torso as her fingers continued their steady work. "You're here, with me, where you belong."

Whatever answer he intended to give her was lost as her hands fell to his belt and he took an unsteady breath in response. Carefully she worked it loose, casting it aside as she went back to unfasten his jeans. Harry took the opportunity to divest himself of his shirt, and as he tossed it onto the floor she paused for a moment, taking in the sight of his naked chest, and the puckered, angry red marks that marred his left shoulder. Her Harry, her dear, sweet Harry, Harry who had taken a bullet for her, who had saved her from calamity, who had charged back into her life, gallant as the knight he was, and righted every wrong that had ever been done to her. He had been through so very much, and though the sight of his scars tugged at her heartstrings, they reminded her that she had so much to be grateful for, that he was still here, with her, and that he would be, for as long as she would have him.

"I love you," she whispered, pressing her lips against his scar in silent benediction before returning her attentions to his jeans. She slipped her hand inside, reveling in the gasp that escaped him as she wrapped her fingers around his hardness. "You're here, and you're mine," she murmured. He reached for her, his hands tangling in her hair, no doubt intending to draw her to him for another kiss, but Ruth had other ideas in mind. With both hands she divested him of jeans and trunks alike, trailing her palms along the outside of his legs as she dropped to her knees, taking his clothes with her, helping him to step out of them so that he stood before he completely bare, and she knelt before him still fully clothed.

"Ruth," he gasped, a note of warning coloring the wonder of his tone, but she would not be deterred; having established a plan of attack, she was determined to follow through on it. Making no attempt to hide her desire for him she wrapped her hand around the base of his shaft and her lips around his tip, taking him slowly into her mouth, feeling the vibration of his groan echoing through her whole body. This had never been one of Ruth's favorite acts, but the response it elicited from Harry more than made up for any minor discomfort she might have felt as she dragged her tongue along his length. The taste of him, the sound of his delighted moans, spurred her on, and she set to it with a will, drawing him deep into her mouth, using her hands to massage those parts of him her lips could not reach. Beneath her touch she felt him trembling, no doubt resisting the urge to thrust against her, and she rewarded him with more of her, sucking him gently, teasing him with her tongue until he could take no more, and carefully disentangled himself from her.

"Christ," he groaned, helping her to her feet and drawing her into his arms, tracing the outline of her lips with own. "You'll be the death of me."

She laughed, intending to make some witty remark, but a squeal escaped her instead as he spun her abruptly in his arms so that the curve of her spine pressed hard against the plane of his chest. His lips seared into the crook of her shoulder, his left hand kneading her breast through her blouse while his right gathered her skirt, raising it higher and higher until his fingers could slip beneath to trace the smooth skin of her thigh.

She sighed his name in bliss, leaning her head back against his shoulder as those same fingers snaked ever nearer to the cleft between her legs; she widened her stance, giving him room to move, canting her hips and helping him so that his hand could at last reach the warm wet place she longed to feel him most. It wasn't the easiest position in the world, but her legs had turned to jelly, and she could not bear to move, to separate herself from him, to deny herself the touch of his hand, even for a moment. Deftly he pinched her nipple through her blouse, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips even as his fingertips traced the shape of her folds through her soaking knickers.

"Do you have any idea how much I want you?" he growled, his lips brushing her neck as he spoke. In response she pressed the swell of her bum back against him and fought the urge to laugh in wild, reckless abandon; yes, she knew _exactly_ how much he wanted her, could feel it in his hardness trapped between their bodies. She could not spare the breath to speak, however, as his fingers slipped beneath the elastic of her knickers at last, and she let lose a desperate little whine, thrusting down against his hand, begging him silently not to tease her. Harry understood her unspoken command and followed her orders without complaint, two thick fingers sliding through her folds, curling into her, claiming her for his own as she trembled and shook and whimpered in his arms. His hands cradled her, surrounded her, consumed her, and she turned to putty in his arms, gasping in time to the rhythm of his thrusting fingers, her hands wrapped around his forearms, not guiding him or directing him but clinging to him lest she be utterly swept away. His teeth scraped against her neck, his hardness thrust against her bum, his grip tightened on her breast, his thumb rubbed against her clit, his fingers curled against her inner walls and she felt herself explode, the last of her worries disappearing, fleeing her body along with the moan that accompanied her shattering release.

Boneless and spent and deliriously happy she collapsed against him, the tension leaving her body, her fingers tracing nonsense patterns through the soft blonde hair that covered his forearms. This was bliss, this was paradise, standing here cradled in the arms of the man she loved, and Ruth never wanted to leave. A soft sound of protest escaped her as he slipped his hand out from between her legs; he chuckled at her distress, his fingers painting the skin of her thighs with her own wetness. Carefully he eased her to the bed, and she laid there beneath him, sprawled out wantonly with her arms above her head, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes as he methodically divested her of her clothes, his touch gentle and sure, his cock bobbing hopefully with every movement of his body.

When she was finally naked he stretched out alongside her, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear while his fingers drew circles around and around her nipples. She shivered beneath his touch, slowly coming back to herself. His shoulder wasn't fully healed, she knew, and she doubted he would be up to going on top tonight, or any night for the near future. With that in mind she rolled across him, straddling his body and smiling down at him mischievously.

"This is a dream," he murmured in an awestruck voice, his palms coming to rest on the outside of her thighs, his fingers curling gently into her flesh.

"This is our dream, Harry," she answered, leaning forward to kiss him softly. "This is the dream I've had every day since you left me."

His grip on her thighs tightened in response, and though his lips were too busy with hers to form an answer she knew what he would have said, given the opportunity, the assurances he would have offered her. She did not need those words, however, needed no more reassurance than the feel of his naked body cradled between her legs, his hardness so close to her, ready and willing to join them both, to make a start on the life, the future they had dreamed up together. Carefully she reached between them, taking him in her hand as she rose up on her knees, reveling in the delighted sound of his moans as she dragged the tip of him through her wetness, coating him with the essence of her, each pass sending waves of electricity shooting up her spine. He was ready, _she_ was ready, and she could put off the moment of their joining no longer.

With a sigh of sheer, unbridled delight she sank slowly onto him, feeling herself stretching deliciously, shivering as he filled her fully. Once, twice, three times she rose up and down again, taking him deeper and deeper each time, his hands curving up her thighs until they reached her hips where he gripped her with bruising force, bringing her down once more so that he was fully sheathed inside her. She whimpered, slightly, pausing for a moment there atop him, drunk on the look of love, of lust, of yearning that burned from his honey-dark eyes. With one hand he reached up and cradled her cheek; she pressed herself against his palm, humming with delight, and ground down against him. His eyelids fluttered, and beneath her his hips moved, thrusting up against her gently and drawing another desperate sound of want from deep in the back of her throat.

"Ruth," he groaned, and in response she only smiled, rising up on her knees once more.

With his hands on her hips he directed her, helped her, guided her, until she was riding him in earnest, her head thrown back on her shoulders and her breasts thrust out for him to devour with hungry eyes. He reached up and cradled their weight in his palms, held them steady while they bounced with each forceful movement of her hips, his delight evident in the panting breaths that left his lips, in the eyes he couldn't quite keep open as she continued to move, taking him inside her again and again. Together they rode the wave, climbing higher and higher; she could feel him trembling beneath her, knew that their moment had nearly come, and so she wrapped her hand around his wrist, taking his right hand from her breast and directing his fingers to her swollen clit. Their fingers tangled with one another as together they rubbed against that delicate bundle of nerves, her thighs straining with the effort of rising and falling, harder and harder, the length of him filling her completely until she could take no more, and with a low, drawn out moan she thrust down against him one last time, her inner walls fluttering around his hardness until he too capitulated to the unstoppable force of their joint release, spilling himself inside her with a groan of bone-deep satisfaction. Trembling, gasping for breath she collapsed to the side, mindful of his tender shoulder, and rested her head alongside his on the pillow, sated and relieved and deliriously in love.

* * *

It was sometime later, after Ruth had bashfully taken herself off to the bathroom to clean up and returned with a towel to cover the damp spot they'd left together in the middle of the bed. She was resting mostly on top of him, their legs tangled together beneath the duvet, her head pillowed on his good shoulder, her lips dangerously close to his neck, her hair tickling his chin. Their fingers were entwined together on his chest, resting near his heart, and Harry Pearce found that he was happier in that moment than he could ever remember being in his entire life. For the first time since he'd left home for university, he was utterly unfettered, without obligation, without duty, without a schedule; there was nothing he had to do, now, save for loving this woman who currently rested in his arms, her skin soft and warm and smooth as silk against his own battered body. The freedom, the sheer exuberant joy that filled him at the thought was intoxicating, and he could only hope that he would continue to feel this certain, this content, for all the rest of his days.

That thought reminded him of a notion that had been with him since he'd left Ruth in July, a question he longed to ask her. All he wanted for his future was her, was to hold her, to know her, to eat meals with the girl who might be his daughter and laugh and learn how to live again, not as a spy, not as a soldier, but as a man. He wanted to secure that future, now, to ask her the question that threatened to fall from his lips at any moment, but he hesitated, thinking of the last man who had been her husband, and the heartache that relationship had brought her. It would need to be approached carefully, this question he longed to ask, and so he decided to shelve it for a time. This was not the place for a proposal, he knew. That thought, of course, led him to wondering where _would_ be a good place for a proposal, and so the question that left his lips in that moment was not _will you marry me, Ruth,_ but instead…

"Let me take you to New York," he murmured.

She turned in his arms, propping herself up on her elbows as her hair tumbled around her shoulders in an artfully messy sort of way.

"What, now?" she asked playfully.

Harry grinned, cupping the back of her head and drawing her to him for a kiss, just because he could, just because no power on earth was strong enough to make him resist her now.

"Not right this moment," he answered. "We'll plan it, some time when you think it would be convenient, when you could leave Maren in charge of the pub. Let me take you there. We'll go to Central Park, we'll see a play, we'll walk the streets. Come away with me, just for a little while."

* * *

Ruth made some show of considering her response, though in her heart she knew there was only one answer she could give him. All her life had been spent in the pub, dreaming of the world beyond, never being brave enough to reach out and take what was on offer. Things were different now, she knew. Wherever she went, whatever became of her, she would be holding Harry's hand in her own, and that made all the difference. He made her brave, made her strong, and she could think of nothing she wanted more than to travel with him, to walk along with him, hand-in-hand, taking in the sights and the smells and the sounds of every city she had ever longed to visit. She would follow where he led, to the ends of the earth, and she imagined she would enjoy every moment of it.

"Yes," she told him simply, unable to stop the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips when she saw him grinning up at her in boyish delight. She ducked her head, kissed him soundly, and allowed herself to be washed away by the love she felt for him, by the dream of the future they had built, together.

* * *

 **A/N: That's all, folks! Thanks for taking this journey with me; I've loved every moment of it. Stay tuned for a new fic from me, which should make an appearance some time in the next week or so.**


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